


A Wolf Amongst Serpents

by bhaleesi



Category: Original Work
Genre: Age Difference, Alchemy, Alcohol, Arranged Marriage, Attempt at Humor, Blood and Violence, Drug Use, Elemental Magic, Elves, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, F/M, Fantastic Racism, Found Family, Friends With Benefits, Intrigue, M/M, Mages, Mildly Dubious Consent, Modern Royalty, Modern used loosely here, Multi, POV Multiple, Political Alliances, Royalty, Same-Sex Marriage, Sexual Content, Sirens, Slow Burn, Torture, Vampires, War, Werewolves, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:21:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 48
Words: 233,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23179882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bhaleesi/pseuds/bhaleesi
Summary: Quill Lycan, middle child of a rebel noble family, has been given a Herculean task - marry the Sovereign Ruler of the Kingdom of Eurydice, unite the fractured realm, and bring justice to his people. Having spent his entire life secluded in Beowulf Tower, "unprepared" is one way of describing his predicament.Ayden Caedis, Sovereign Ruler of the Kingdom of Eurydice, has lost years and loved ones fighting his father’s war. A marriage to a former rebel may be what he needs to finally restore peace to his divided kingdom. But is he ready to set aside the past in exchange for an uncertain future?With enemies both known and hidden in the shadows, their reign promises to be a challenging one. A kingdom that is plagued by old wounds, riddled with treacherous schemes, and held together by sheer willpower is no easy beast to tame. When the wolf joins the serpent, no one is safe.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Female Character, Original Female Character/Original Male Character, Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 58
Kudos: 58





	1. Worldbuilding

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! This is the first story I've ever written, so it's gonna be a bit of a learning process for me. All feedback and comments are encouraged and appreciated. I'll try to use any advice you're willing to offer to improve my writing! I got the idea for this story from a Sims 3 game that I've been playing for the past few years. The events that happen in the story will be partially inspired by gameplay, so as you can see my storytelling method is pretty refined. I'm writing this during the 2020 COVID-19 outbreak, so we'll see how everything goes. Thank you for your interest!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This page is a crash-course on all you need to know for the story to make sense. I would say don’t read it like a chapter - it’s more of a helpful guide if you’re confused about a story element or detail. Skip to the story, but return to this page if something is amiss.

Setting  
The story takes place in the Kingdom of Eurydice, on the continent of Orpheus. Eurydice has a lot of real-world inspirations in terms of its setting, people, and technologies. Eurydice is very loosely based on a fantasy Second Industrial Revolution with some medieval vestiges for added flair. Think 1890s to 1920s depending on the location. Vehicles (cars, trucks, trains, trams, and the like) are common, but people still use swords and horses. Expect to see things like electricity, corporations, and telecommunications mingling with semi-realistic magic and supernatural humans.

  
  
It is divided into regions. There are seven regions, and each was initially its own country before they all joined into one larger nation.

1\. Annex --> The youngest of the regions and with quite a dark history, the Annex was “created” during the Rose Era by then-Sovereign Gideon Rosemont. This was during the First Gray Waste, when the foul blight passed through the land. With the help of the neighboring regions, Rosemont expelled millions of werewolves from mainland Eurydice across the Lesser Siren Sea and into the harsh, uninhabited lands of the Annex. Mainland isolation, prejudice, and future reoccurrences of the Waste have made the Annex a difficult place to call home for those of the lower class. A cold environment combined with the robust werewolf personality makes for a stubborn Region indeed. The area has a wild, almost heartbreaking appeal to it. The Annex is home to the Wolffs of Scarwood Hold and the Lycans of Beowulf Tower. It is geographically similar to Iceland, Alaska, and the Alps.

2\. Briar --> Beautiful and marked with luscious gardens and magnificent flora and fauna, Briar is the most prosperous of the regions. The bountiful Gem Mines scattered throughout the region have brought great wealth to the land, with the inhabitants of this region having the highest standard of living in Eurydice. Don’t be surprised to find names both starting and ending with ‘briar’ here, as it is popular word and species in the area. The former Kingdom of Briar was the most peaceful of the old kingdoms, likely contributing to its modern-day riches. Briar and Sanguis are historically close regions, interestingly enough. Briar’s population is primarily elven with some vampires in the south. Although often associated with the Seas, Port Levans is politically considered a territory of Briar. Briar is home to the Sylphs of Briarlight and their vassals. It is inspired by India, West Asia, and Belgium.

3\. Coven --> This region is known for its dense cities and tall, rising buildings made of white shimmering sand and other fine materials. Although not as wildly prosperous as Briar, Coven still boasts the second highest standard of living for its inhabitants. Coven has perhaps the highest number of old noble families, and its people are known to be somewhat pompous. Many merchants reside in Coven due to its strong economy and proximity to the Southern Siren Sea, and the fact that it is the mouth of the Gold Road. Coven is a mix of mages, commonfolk, and travelling merchants. Coven is home to the Livingstones of Living Stone and their vassals. It is similar to Mediterranean Europe.

4\. Sanguis --> Dark, rainy, and shrouded, Sanguis is where many vampires reside. Like Coven, Sanguis features high-rising buildings. However, these are often constructed from the darker minerals found throughout the area. Not every spot of Sanguis is dreary; some truly beautiful mountains and sceneries can be found heading towards Briar and Port Levans, and the black sand beaches along the Southern Siren Sea are absolutely breathtaking. The dragon motif is common in this area, alluding to the fact that dragons would frequently roost here before the Ambition Era. Other reptiles, particularly snakes, have become more favored by newer generations. Sanguis is home to the Caedises of Serpentspire, as well as the Tyduses of Dragonfyre Keep and other vassals. It is similar to gothic European cities, as well as Victorian and New England.

5\. Stepes --> The steppes of Stepes are marked by many clumped settlements scattered throughout the land. This region is in an unfortunate location, as its more powerful sisters tend to trample over it whenever conflict ensues. Stepes is perhaps the most economically scattered of the regions, with some living in astonishing poverty and others being quite wealthy. Many merchants from Coven end their journey in Stepes, making some of the larger cities bustling hubs of trade and commerce. There are mostly commonfolk inhabiting this region, though merchants of all types can be found here too. About 65% of Eurydice’s agricultural input comes from here. Stepes is home to the Skyreaches of Dadia’s Rest and their vassals. It is analogous to the Sonoran Desert towards the center, western Europe towards the southwest, and the Arctic Circle towards the northeast. The grasslands are similar to Eurasian steppes. There are also many forests and farmlands.

6\. Ancient --> Ancient is an interesting case. It is a mixed region, meaning that there is no dominant race here. The Red Throne can be found in the Redfyre Palace, between the boundaries of Sanguis, Coven, and Ancient. This region favors neoclassical architecture, although it resembles a mix of Coven and Sanguis in some parts. Reptiles, roses, and lyres are typical design motifs. Ancient is the intellectual hub of Eurydice, with the prestigious Arcane Institute and its tributaries being located just outside of Courtmere. Ancient is also a spiritual and religious center, and the Council of the Seer and the House of the Five Faiths are found in the heart of Courtmere. The largest division of the Aurum Bank can also be found in Ancient. It is analogous to France, Italy, and Greece. Many other cities in Ancient are overlooked by the average Eurydicean, as Courtmere and even Haguecourt are forefront in people’s minds.

7\. Siren Seas --> The Seas consist of multiple archipelagos linked together by old, well-known water routes. Many of its cities are strategically positioned to entice merchants and traveling ships. Larger cities and settlements often feature a section that is above the water and a lower section that is underwater. While technically part of Eurydice, the sirens of the Seas operate with little interference from the Sovereign. The rulers of the Sirens are called the Spear King or Queen, although their authority does not match that of the Sovereign or even the Potentate. The Seas can be viewed as a semi-autonomous nation that officially belongs to the crown. The Southern Siren Sea is more populous than the Northern, due to its warmer and more pleasant waters. The Lesser Siren and Mellow Seas are legally part of mainland Eurydice, and thus are not under direct control of the Spear King or Queen. The Seas are home to the Tridents of the Siren Citadel. The Seas are inspired by the Pacific Islands and the fictional city of Atlantis. Port Levans has a high siren population but is a bit different. It is inspired by Louisiana and the Caribbean.

\-------

Time  
Periods are measured in Eras. The length of each Era varies, with the Grand Seer announcing new ones when the time is right. The Eras in order and length are:  
• Dark Era (Pre-Eurydice)  
• Fire Era (300 years)  
• Stone Era (208 years)  
• Iron Era (173 years)  
• Rose Era (32 years)  
• Ambition Era (138 years)  
• Gold Era (250 years)  
• Gray Era (50 years)  
• War Era (28 years)

\-------

Important Characters  
Quill Lycan (7 War) --> Introverted and a bit of a bookworm, Quill is the third child of the Lycan family. Being the third born means that he stands little to no chance of ruling his clan, and any marriage prospects are limited. This has worked out great for Quill, who would sooner marry for love or not marry at all. His carefree life draws to a close when he is promised to the Caedis family to end the war. Despite his quiet disposition, Quill is fiercely protective of his people and has strong opinions on how werewolves should be treated.

Theron Lycan (33 Gray) --> A power-hungry man and Head the Lycan Clan, there is nothing that would bring Theron greater joy than rising above his current station. He likes his children well enough, but is not above using them for political leverage. Despite his lust for power, Theron is a rational leader that inspires people to follow him. This has put him at odds with the actual leader of the Annex.

Celestina Lycan (35 Gray) --> Dutiful to a fault and fiercely protective of her family, Celestina Lycan is the classic picture of a mother wolf. A nurturing spirit, she has fostered a strong relationship with all of her children. Although her accomplishments are sometimes overshadowed by her husband, Lady Celestina embodies the Lycan house words – she was neither broken nor made timid by years of hardship in the Annex. She often takes care of the more domestic side of being a Clan Head, and the commoners that work the Lycan lands love her dearly.

Ayden Caedis (47 Gray) --> Gorgeous, powerful, and dangerous, Ayden succeeded his father for the Red Throne in the middle of the War Era after the former Sovereign perished during the Siege of Tyrant’s March. No stranger to the battlefield, his aggressive maneuvers slowly won the upper hand for the crown. With the tenacious werewolves refusing to surrender and direct combat in the Annex an unwise decision, Ayden sought an alternative way to end the bloodshed – marriage.

Selene Caedis (46 Gray – 22 War) --> Wife of Ayden and the late Potentate, there are many songs written of the beauty and grace of Lady Selene. Her caring nature meant that she was against the war. She frequently attempted to end the violence as mercifully as possible, even if minimal bloodshed meant prolonging the conflict. Selene succumbed to the Gray Waste after campaigning for the peaceful surrender of the werewolves in the Annex.

Lucien Caedis (15 War) --> "Eldest" child of Ayden and Heir Apparent of the kingdom, Lucien is known for being more temperamental than the ocean. Lucien is more likely to be found in the Night Gardens with his lyre than he is to be studying war plans with his father. His avoidance of the Throne, moody nature, and strange fascination with commonfolk has led to whisperings of whether he is truly fit to rule.

Esmerelda Caedis (15 War) --> Younger twin sister of Lucien, Esme grows more and more to resemble her late mother Selene. Calculating and with a playful streak, no one truly knows what her motives are. Like Lucien, there have been whisperings about her. However, it appears some believe Esme should be the Heir Apparent due to her social intelligence and stronger personality.

Lyra Livingstone (34 Gray) --> Head of the Livingstone Clan and Governor of Coven, Lyra is known to be as cold and distant as the stars she’s named after. Quite the political player, she secured the title of Governor of Coven without needing a regent amidst a chaotic time in Coven. Lyra’s tendency to remain neutral allowed her to both suggest the Impasse Treaty and have it granted, keeping Coven out of a majority of the war.

Orion Livingstone (7 War) --> Heir of the Livingstone family, Orion lives in the lap of luxury. A missing father and a distant mother meant that Orion both grew too fast and never really grew up. More flirtatious than is strictly necessary, wickedly good-looking, and too charming for his own good, Orion serves as the most eligible bachelor in the land. While his family has kept out of the war, it won’t be long before he has to face the realities of his position as heir.

Corvus Livingstone (14 War) --> Corvus is the younger brother of Orion, and his complete opposite. Whereas his older brother is vivacious and lively, Corvus is broodier and more thoughtful. Corvus is gifted with a maturity rarely seen amongst his agemates, and he already shows signs of being a great leader for the Livingstone family.

Fiona Sylph (16 Gray) --> Despite her age, Fiona Sylph is as strong and sharp as ever. The matriarch of the Sylph family keeps her charges in line with an iron fist, and often laments her son Arion’s friendlier disposition. Although she does not officially bear the title, it would be hard to deny that she is the de-facto Master of Finance. Fiona effectively raised Ayden and Selene with Arion.

Arion Sylph (47 Gray) --> Heir of the Sylph family and Suzerain of the Realm, Arion has been at Ayden’s side since they were children. Level-headed and very friendly, Arion is the exact opposite of his mother Fiona. Don’t be fooled by his welcoming disposition - Arion is as steadfast a supporter of the crown as they come, and his friendship with Ayden was a major contributor to the influential Sanguis-Briar Alliance.

Hyperion Tydus (47 Gray) --> Hyperion is the head of the Tydus family. His shrewd war strategies have earned him a place in the Royal Inner Circle, as well as the title of Master of Defense. Hyperion will stop at nothing to see a Tydus on the Red Throne, whether himself or one of his siblings. The fact that a Lycan “stole” his coveted spot in the Royal Family is not an easy pill to swallow. Should the new Potentate meet an unfortunate end, well, a Tydus will be there to take his place.

Reyna Tydus (2 War) --> Second oldest child in the Tydus family, Reyna is just as ruthless, if not more so, than her elder brother. Her penchant for sniffing out secrets and enemy plans (not to mention her vicious streak) led to her appointment as the Master of Intelligence. Although she and Hyperion share similar ambitions, there is one major difference - Reyna wants to be on the throne, and will not settle for a sibling. This crucial difference means that she and Hyperion are either working with or against each other at any given moment.

Isabelle Tydus (7 War) --> Third child of the Tydus clan, Isabelle is known for her fierce intelligence. Though she would rather spend hours researching in the archives of the Dragonfyre Keep, she is always ready to spend time with her younger brother. Isabelle’s relationship with her older siblings is the perfect representation of what it’s like to love, but not necessarily like, your family members.

Ares Tydus (10 War) --> The youngest member of the main Tydus clan. His wild locks of flaming hair mirror his fiery personality, and he’s always in search of a new adventure. Ares has been well-shielded from the war by his elder siblings, and his views tend to err on the side of naivety. He also has a tendency to fall in love with any person that is nice to him.

Silas Wolff (10 Gray) --> The most influential werewolf clan, the Wolff family is the driving force for the continuation of the war. Proud beyond measure and decidedly stubborn, any true Wolff would rather die than compromise or surrender. Though the Werewolf Insurgency presents a unified front, there are some vassals who would sooner abandon the old way than lose loved ones in continuing Silas Wolff’s doomed war.

Sakura Wolff (13 War) --> The granddaughter of Silas Wolff and second in line for the Annexian ‘throne’. Sakura is timid and gentle, a sharp contrast from her lineage. She would sooner read tales of romance and gallant knights than order the deaths of her enemies. Sakura is enamored by Eurydicean royalty, and secretly idolizes Selene Caedis.

Mia Aragona (11 War) --> A sweet commonfolk girl from outside the Iron Wall. She works in the kitchens, and often serves members of the royal family because of her pleasant disposition. She is a great source of information, and can offer insights into the lives of the average person that the nobles would not have considered.

\-------

Other Characters 

Lycan Clan 

  * Lorelei 



  * Ezra



  * Viscardi



  * Luna



Skyreach Clan 

  * Ramsay 



  * Melissa



Trident Clan

  * Tiberia 



  * Ariel



  * Caspian



Sylph Clan

  * Persephone 



Miscellaneous 

  * Grand Seer Calliope 



  * Seraphina Lebrecht 



  * Chione Sylvain 



  * Cassius Yorke



  * Thorfinn Ragnarsson 



  * Astrid Thorfinndottir



\-------

Races  
It should be noted that all people in Eurydice are biologically the same species, i.e. human beings. However, their characteristics and abilities will differ depending on their race. There are six official Eurydicean races.  
1\. Vampires --> Vampires typically live in Sanguis and southern Briar. They must consume blood and similar substances in order to sustain themselves. Vampires also burn when exposed to sunlight for prolonged periods. They tend to be nocturnal as a result, although they can live diurnally with the use of a protective material called sunshade. The average vampire is physically stronger than other races aside from werewolves, and they are known for their sharp senses. They live slightly longer than the average Eurydicean, but they are not immortal. Fangs and glowing eyes are some of their defining physical traits, as well as pointy ears. Vampires cannot process ‘normal’ food. However, they can eat food cooked with organic blood, synthetic blood, or a plant called sanguinem. They are culturally inspired by Central and Eastern European people.

2\. Werewolves --> A race of wolf-like people that live in the Annex and western Stepes. Werewolves have excellent senses, and are known to be strong, resilient, and robust. They fully Transform during full moons. Their Transformed state resembles a more wolf-like version of their normal appearance, i.e. they do not fully become wolves. Werewolves can ‘shift’ outside of a full moon. This means that they can modify the degree to which their wolf qualities are displayed, e.g. displaying certain traits but not others. Some unshifted werewolves can pass as commonfolk outside of a full moon. Werewolves can move between an unshifted and nearly Transformed stage willingly, except during full moons when they forcibly change. For most werewolves, their Transformations are a simple fact of life and are at worst seen as inconvenient. Non-werewolves may look upon their changes with suspicion, especially if they are not used to being around werewolves. Werewolves do not lose control over themselves when Transformed, unless they were under extreme physical and/or mental stress leading up to it. It is not uncommon for people in werewolf societies to go about their business while Transformed, although they would stay hidden outside of such spaces. They cannot turn others into werewolves - one must strictly be born with lycanthropy. They are inspired by Native American people.

3\. Elves --> Frequently located in Briar and Sanguis, elves are one of the oldest modern races in Eurydice. Like vampires, elves live slightly longer than the average person but are not immortal. They can often be distinguished by their pointy ears, and many elves favor long hairstyles. Around 80% of elves can perform elemental magic. Of the magically inclined elves, only 40% have a particular elemental affinity. Elves are typically defined in terms of their affinity, i.e. an elf with dominant fire magic would be a fire-elf whereas an elf without a dominant element would be a regular elf. Elemental magic involves the control of the four elements: fire, water, earth, and air. Elves with magic can control all four elements, but are exceptionally better at their affinity if they have one. They have historically close ties with vampires. They are inspired by South and West Asian as well as Romani people.

4\. Mages --> Mages are a proud, pompous, and incredibly uppity people. Many of them live in Coven, although they have high populations in Stepes and Ancient. They use alchemical magic, and many mages believe it is superior to its elemental sister due to its higher versatility. Mages are born with magical ability within them, but often require a conduit to channel it. Most use small staffs and wands with Runes inscribed on them, although the braver ones will carve the Runes directly onto their bodies. This style of magic involves modifying the physical and chemical properties of the world around a person. There are many Runes for different actions. Aside from their magical abilities, mages are quite similar to commonfolk. Mages are inspired by Western European people.

5\. Commonfolk --> Diverse and numerous, commonfolk occupy the largest region in Eurydice. They are essentially regular humans. Though they lack the magic of elves and mages, the strength of vampires and werewolves, and the unusual properties of sirens, commonfolk are far from boring. The variable conditions in Stepes have made them a highly adaptable group, and they can survive in even the most extreme environments. Although this race inhabits much of Stepes, they can be found in large numbers throughout every region of Eurydice. They are inspired by many people, particularly Eurasian nomadic tribes and North Americans.

6\. Sirens --> Sirens are perhaps the most distinct racial subtype in Eurydice. Their anatomical, biological, and chemical makeup is often radically different from the other races. They can exist both on land and underwater indefinitely, although most of them prefer to live in the water. Sirens have always been a rather isolated people, with Port Levans being their largest land settlement. They are fairly difficult to find in the other regions, though populations exist in southern parts of Briar, Sanguis, and Ancient. The water-dwelling sirens of Eurydice operate semi-autonomously. The Spear Kings and Queens rule over their people with little interference from the Sovereign, but they are still subject to royal decrees and the laws of Eurydice. The family of the Spear Kings and Queens are considered royalty in siren society. However, mainland Eurydice would classify them as high-ranking nobles on the level of a Great Clan. Water-dwelling sirens are inspired by Pacific Islanders. Land-dwelling sirens are inspired by Creole and Caribbean people.

\-------

Terminology  
1\. Sovereign --> The ruler of Eurydice. This is a hereditary title. The Sovereign is analogous to a king, although the title itself is gender-neutral.  
2\. Potentate --> The spouse of the Sovereign. This position can only be achieved through marriage. This is analogous to a queen. This title is also gender-neutral.  
3\. Suzerain --> The right-hand of the Sovereign (and Potentate). They are analogous to a prime minister, but with less power. It is not hereditary.  
4\. Governor --> The head of one of the Great Clans from each region, with the exception of Ancient. They are responsible for the wellbeing of their region and its inhabitants. This title is hereditary.  
5\. Master --> There are four Masters that serve the realm: Defense, Intelligence, Finance, and Society. These positions are comparable to modern-day ministers/secretaries.  
6\. Lord/Lady --> Someone belonging to a noble clan. Lords/Ladies hold multiple cities in their provinces, but the location of their castle is the seat of their power.  
7\. Skinwalker --> an insulting term for a werewolf.  
8\. Leech --> offensive terms for a vampire.  
9\. Goblin --> an offensive term for an elf  
10\. Witch --> offensive term for a mage  
11\. Primitive --> an offensive description of commonfolk. It references the fact that they lack magical or physical enhancements.  
12\. Harpy --> an offensive term for a siren.  
13\. Hybrid --> A child born from two people of different races. It is not offensive.  
14\. Halfie --> an offensive term for a hybrid.

\-------  
Politics  
Eurydicean politics is a mix of feudalism and capitalism. Its society is highly stratified, with people usually mingling with members of their own class or of a similar rank. Royals and aristocrats make up the highborn caste; gentry make up the middle class; everyone else is considered lowborn.  
1\. Royalty --> This is the ruling family. They hold a lot of the power in society.  
2\. Aristocracy --> This pertains to the class of recognized nobles that own lands, keeps, and titles. This is a hereditary class. Governor is the highest hereditary aristocratic title. The Governor is responsible for the wellbeing of their region, though they will often employ vassal noble clans for the different provinces. Vassal clans are part of the aristocracy, though they are not always equal in size or importance.  
3\. Gentry --> This is the middle class. Vassals will often employ “vassals” of their own in the form of the gentry. Gentry are not noble, although some wealthier families will have large estates and may exert control over the neighboring lowborn people. Wealthy members of the middle class will often try and marry upwards into noble clans.  
4\. Commoner --> These people are neither gentry nor part of the aristocracy. They represent the masses. Regardless of whether they live in rural areas or cities, commoners are still subjects of their Governor. Commoners can become gentry by accumulating great wealth through the more capitalist systems. They can also be granted noble status if they are given official titles or marry into it, although they may not always be welcomed in circles with older noble families.

\-------  
Marriage  
In Eurydice, marriages are not strictly between men and women. Highborn people will usually marry their children to whoever has the most power in another family of a similar rank, usually the oldest unmarried potential heir. Marriages will not be recognized until both partners are 18 and over. The people in question must first be betrothed/engaged to each other. This is fairly informal with commoners, but much more formal with highborn families. Betrothals last indefinitely and can be broken at any time, although this may cause friction between the two families. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The maps were generated using this website: https://azgaar.github.io/Fantasy-Map-Generator/  
> All coats of arms featured in the story were generated using this website: https://rollforfantasy.com  
> Images made using these sites:  
> (Arion and similar images) --> https://picrew.me/image_maker/32223  
> (Celestina, Lyra, and similar) --> http://www.rinmarugames.com/playgame.php?game_link=medieval-woman-dress-up-game  
> (Selene, Esme, and similar) --> https://www.rinmarugames.com/playgame.php?game_link=mega-fantasy-avatar-creator  
> (Theron and Ezra Lycan) -->https://picrew.me/image_maker/250891  
> (Quill, Ayden, and similar) --> https://www.artbreeder.com


	2. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm already attached to Aurora and her crew. Ah, well. Let me know if/how I can improve this so that things are a little clearer!  
> Once again, thank you for your interest. Find me on tumblr at ‘bhaleesi‘!

Aurora Kai  
The Ironhill, 50 Gray

***

The windows were smashed to bits. Glass lay scattered across the streets, along with the broken pieces of the goods that each of the werewolf-owned stores in their area had sold. Cruel words were painted on doors, on windows, on walls.

Murderers. Skinwalkers. Plagues.

Aurora Kai clenched her fist as she stared at her ransacked shop. She was a proud werewolf from the Ironhill. She and her little family lived and worked just outside of the East Gate. She had been there all of her life – had grown up with the werewolves, vampires, mages, elves, commonfolk, and sirens that made a living for themselves on the outskirts of the capital. And yet all of those years had apparently meant nothing.

This wasn’t the first time that such an event had occurred, and it wouldn’t be the last. The past few months had seen a rise in anti-werewolf ideals across the capital and Eurydice as a whole. Lilith von Drake, their beloved Potentate, had been assassinated in Courtmere not long ago. The Potentate had died in Echolyse’s Sanctuary, in the House of the Five Faiths, at the very heart of the Echolysian Faith. She had been murdered in one of the most sacred places in the entire Kingdom of Eurydice.

And it was supposedly because of a werewolf.

Daron Wolfrose, the Suzerain of the realm, had been accused of murdering her. The Sovereign called for his death; the Grand Seer had risen up to challenge him. The Suzerain had been the champion of the werewolves – he was one of the few that had sought to improve conditions for his people across the nation. The evidence against him was weak at best, but in the end Sovereign Damien Caedis had decided his guilt.

In doing so, he had decided the guilt of the werewolves. Once again, Aurora’s people suffered. The citizens in the capital had risen up against her kind, despite years of relatively peaceful coexistence after the Gray Waste had been virtually erased just two decades earlier. Innocent werewolves were attacked in the streets; stores like hers were raided; slurs were shouted by former friends.

“We shouldn’t stay here,” Aurora’s wife, Elaine Kai, murmured. She held their daughter Amethyst close to her chest, her pretty face creased in worry.

Aurora approached the building that had held both their house and their shop. She kicked pieces of the broken glass out of her way as she passed, ignoring the shards that cut into her leather boots.

“Aurora,” Elaine tried again, beseeching.

Amethyst poked her fluffy head from her mother’s protective embrace, staring at the ruined streets in wonder. She was too young to understand the severity of what had been happening. At least, Aurora hoped she was.

“Where would you have us go?” Aurora responded, glancing back at her wife and daughter. “Things are bound to get worse for werewolves all over Eurydice now that Wolfrose has been declared guilty. At least we’ll be in a familiar environment if we stay, no matter how bad things get.”

“I have an uncle near the Annex. In Beartown, by Lupus Crossing,” Elaine said. “You know him. The one with the prosthetic leg. He’ll let us stay with him until everything calms down in the capital. We can help him around the house in return, maybe do some-”

“Gods, Lainey, the Annex? What are you thinking?” she responded, hackles raised.

Aside from a few of its cities such as Lupus Crossing, Westedge, and Moonstone, the Annex was one of the most difficult regions in Eurydice to reside in. Unless one was wealthy and could afford to import various luxuries, the cold and mountainous Annex was an unforgiving place.

And that was without mentioning the rising tensions along the Annex-Stepes border. Rumors from the west stated that large numbers of werewolves had been gathering in the areas surrounding the intersection of the two regions. No one, at least no one whose information Aurora could trust, was quite sure of what their goals were. The western ends of both the Gold Road and Tyrant’s March were becoming more and more difficult to traverse, with the increased crime being attributed to the rapidly amassing werewolves.

Their argument was interrupted by their neighbor, a kindly old commonfolk man by the name of Sawyer Henry. He was from Beargrasp, and moved to the Ironhill years ago after losing most of his family during the worst of the Second Gray Waste. Although their area near the East Gate was predominantly werewolf, Sawyer was still a prominent person in the community.

“They got you ladies as well?” he asked, gesturing to the words painted across the walls of the shop. “It’s a shame what has been happening lately. Y’all shouldn’t have to suffer for that Wolfrose lad, guilty or not.” He shook his head sympathetically.

“We need your advice, Sawyer,” Elaine said, purposefully not looking at Aurora. “Should we pack up our stuff and head for the Annex? I know things are tough out there, but surely being amongst our kind would be better than staying in the capital? What with everything that has been happening lately.”

Aurora glared at her wife, crossing her arms in a huff. She did not speak out, however, as she valued Sawyer’s words. After all, he had learned the hard way that sometimes moving from one’s home was best for a person.

Amethyst broke free from her mother’s hold, rushing to Sawyer. Their daughter raised her arms at his feet, her ears flattened and tail wagging in excitement at the familiar person. The old man picked her up, a contemplative look on his weathered face.

“The Annex? Hard to say, really. Everything depends on how long this little ruckus is going to last. Wouldn’t want ya to grab everythin’ just to have things settle in a few weeks.”

“So, you’re saying that we should stay?” Aurora said, glancing triumphantly at her wife.

Elaine began to braid her hair over her shoulder, a thing she only did when she was anxious. Aurora walked over to her, gently laying a a comforting hand over Elaine’s. She gave her an award-winning smile that was returned with a small, watery one.

“Didn’t quite say that,” Sawyer replied. “Of course, we can’t really be making any big moves until the Grand Seer’s speech.”

 _I completely forgot that was tonight,_ Aurora groaned internally. _I need to leave now if I want to get there on time to hear him speak._

Every year, the Grand Seer would either announce the continuation of the current Era or usher in a new one. Like most people, she, Elaine, and Amethyst had been out with friends and family to enjoy the last day of the year. They had planned to come home briefly, before finding out that their area had been vandalized.

 _Finding your home battered and insults painted everywhere really takes your mind off of festivities,_ Aurora thought sourly. She once again glanced at the store, wondering how dangerous it would be to leave Elaine and Amethyst with Sawyer while she travelled to the nearest square.

“I know that look,” Elaine said to her. “You’re thinking of doing something reckless. Please tell me you’re not still planning on going to the square, Aurora.”

“I want to see the Grand Seer in person,” Aurora defended.

She squeezed Elaine’s hand, hoping that the intimacy of their connection would show how desperately she needed to visit the square.

“You’ll be doing no such thing! I’m sure there is a radio here somewhere that we can all listen to his speech on. Stay with us where it’s safe,” Elaine said.

Aurora scoffed. ‘Safe’ wasn’t exactly the word she would use to describe their current climate.

“I’ll only be gone a few hours, Lainey. I’ll take the fastest tram to the square, and I'll leave as soon as the Grand Seer is done speaking. No stops, no detours. Take Amethyst with you to Sawyer’s place so you won’t be alone,” she said, hoping the old man wouldn’t protest at having his home offered up without his permission. _He probably won’t mind._

Elaine shook her head, opening her mouth to argue. Aurora ran to the side of their shop before she could say anything, grabbing the wooden box that they kept hidden away for emergencies. Inside of it was a simple hunting knife and a small pouch filled with 100 crowns worth of paper and coin. She grabbed a few of the paper notes and the knife, shoving them into her pockets.

“Look, I’m armed and have money on me. I can get there and back with no problems. When I return, we can clean everything up and talk about that uncle of yours,” Aurora said, using the charming smile that had won Elaine over many years ago.

The woman in question sighed, clearly seeing that Aurora had already made up her mind about hearing the Grand Seer’s words.

“Be careful, my heart,” Elaine said softly.

Aurora gently touched her forehead to Elaine’s, closing her eyes and breathing in the sweet scent of jasmine. She then turned to Amethyst and ruffled her hair.

“Be a big strong wolf and take care of mommy and Sawyer,” she said to her daughter. Amethyst nodded sagely, her face the picture of solemnity.

Aurora smiled. She kissed Elaine one last time, before nodding at Sawyer. She then turned and began to hurry down the street, hoping to avoid the mass of people that would soon be flooding out of their homes to the nearest square.

Despite her best efforts, the streetcar was still brimming with people. Aurora fought her way onto the tram regardless. This was the fastest and most affordable way for her to reach the square. She didn’t have the luxury of owning a personal vehicle or even a horse, and a private speculum was definitely not in her and Elaine’s financial future.

Some gave her dirty looks as she muscled her way towards the back. Others whispered things of a more sinister nature. Aurora did not miss a few mumbled ‘skinwalkers’ as she settled herself with a gaggle of werewolves in the back. They clearly had the right idea, isolating themselves from the other passengers on the tram. Said passengers gave them wary glances, as if they were suddenly going to fully transform and do what Daron Wolfrose had allegedly done to Lilith von Drake.

The tense ride was cut short when a fight broke out between a vampire and one of the werewolves. Their whispered insults had apparently been too much to bear, and the werewolf had risen up against the vampire. The tram was stopped, and all the werewolves aboard Aurora’s boxcar were kicked off.

“At least give me my money back, you cretins!” she yelled at the elven attendants on the streetcar.

One sneered at her as the tram sped away, pointy ears twitching. Some of the nosier passengers stared out of the windows at the displaced werewolves.

Aurora didn’t have time to argue further, no matter how desperate she was for a good fight. She took a deep breath, and mapped out the quickest route that she could take on foot. Once she had found it, she broke out in a rush. If she partially Shifted in order to cover more ground, well then, it was within her rights.

She arrived at the square, gasping for breath. Many people had already gathered, obscuring her view. In actuality, Grand Seer Claudius I was speaking in front of the Temple of Echolyse in Courtmere. However, magic-enhanced specula allowed him and his words to be projected across the entire country. This square off of the East Gate was the closet area that had a speculum, allowing the people in the area to receive important information quickly.

 _I need a better view,_ Aurora thought, looking at her surroundings. She spotted an alleyway with several crates laying underneath the windows.

 _Perfect,_ she thought, weaving through the dense crowd of chattering people. Aurora leaped on top of the wooden crates, using them to push herself closer to a windowsill. She grabbed onto it, digging her nails into it for purchase. Now hanging, she swung her legs until she was able to use her momentum to propel herself onto a higher window.

A siren squealed and quickly covered themselves when they saw Aurora climbing up the building. She grimaced, and quickly averted her eyes.

 _Sorry!_ She thought bashfully, although she did not break her steady rhythm. This continued until she reached the roof, giving her a clearer view of the projected Grand Seer.

Grand Seer Claudius I had already begun speaking, his lips set in a grim line. Aurora sat down and listened to what the mage had to say about the future of their kingdom.

“Echolyse sees that which we cannot,” he began. “This is her divine guidance, and this is what she has seen fit to communicate with me.”

 _Going straight to the all-seeing Echolyse spiel? This must be serious,_ Aurora thought with amusement. As a believer in the werewolf god Remus, the Echolysian Faith meant little to her. However, their status as the dominant religion in Eurydice meant that the Council of the Seer, the religious leaders of the Echolysian Faith, held much sway in society.

“The Gray Era is ending.”

A hush fell over the crowd. Aurora leaned forward, her interest peaked. Her sharp senses meant that she could pick out some words from the crowd below her.

“A new Era? They didn’t even announce a new one when the Gray Waste was effectively cured. Why are they declaring a new one now? Is this a blessing or a curse?”

“Everything has been so strange lately, what with the Potentate’s assassination. Does this new Era mean that we will be safe from the violence?”

“Gray Era or not, this country is headed to a dark place. I can feel it in my bones.”

Aurora stopped eavesdropping, and once more directed her attention to the Grand Seer. Although he was technically looking at the crowd in Courtmere, it felt like he was right there in the Ironhill with them. His face was even more grim than before, as if he could hear the whisperings from the people.

“Echolyse sees that which we cannot,” he repeated. “The new Era shall be called the War Era. That will be all.”

A hush fell over the crowd once more, this one more deafening than the last. The projected image from the speculum shook once, twice, then vanished.

Aurora felt cold. Below her, the crowd had broken out of its trance. People were screaming over each other, trying to leave the square as quickly as possible. Parents wrangled their children; parents grabbed their spouses. It was complete chaos.

 _War Era? That’s not good. Who are we fighting?_ Aurora wondered, watching everyone as they ran around in a panic. She really needed to head back to her family. There was much that they suddenly needed to discuss. Perhaps Elaine was correct about leaving the capital.

It was quite dark by the time Aurora made it home. It had been a difficult journey – the announcement of the new Era meant that people had suddenly thrown away their common sense. She saw the lights on in Sawyer Henry’s house, and entered without knocking. Sawyer immediately hobbled down the stairs, a small firearm clutched in his hands.

“Oh, gods, Aurora! You should’ve knocked. Almost blasted ya,” he said, sighing in relief.

Aurora walked past him, already quite familiar with the layout of his home. She found Elaine exactly where she expected to, a sleeping Amethyst clutched to her chest.

“Tomorrow marks a new Era. The War Era,” Aurora stated calmly. “Maybe leaving the Ironhill isn’t such a bad idea.”

Elaine’s eyes widened, then she nodded. “I will write to my uncle at once. He lives by the Stepes border, so hopefully we can find work there if the Annex proves difficult.”

“What will you do?” Aurora asked, looking to Sawyer.

“Bah,” he said, waving a hand dismissively, “I’m an old man. I’ve seen worse than Eras with ominous names. I’ll stay here. You two are welcome to stay here as long as it takes to arrange safe passage to the Annex.”

Aurora dipped her head gratefully. She went and sat with her family, accepting the glass of water that Elaine offered her. Running around the eastern side of the Ironhill had made her parched, she realized.

Aurora took a deep breath, and fiddled with the knife in her pocket. She contemplated the next Era. If the Grand Seer was correct, the coming years would be full of strife and hardship. What frustrated her most was the vagueness. Who would be fighting this war? Which was safer – the capital, or the Annex? She had so many questions, and no answers for any of them.

Elaine seemed to sense her distress. It was Aurora’s turn to have a comforting arm placed on her.

“We’ll be safe in the Annex,” Elaine said softly. Even now, Aurora could still smell the scent of jasmine on her. It reminded her that she was here, that Elaine was at her side. It grounded her.

“We’ll be safe in the Annex,” Aurora echoed.

If she said it enough times, then maybe it would be true. For now, they would remain in Sawyer’s home until they could join Elaine’s uncle in Beartown.

***

Two months later, Silas Wolff, the Governor of the Annex, would raise a powerful army. His supporters in the Annex, Stepes, and across Eurydice were declared Insurgents by the crown. The Insurgents would breach the Annex-Stepes border during their Invasion, trampling many towns and villages in their wake. Civilians and soldiers alike lost everything during Silas Wolff’s bid to storm the capital.

Beartown was lost during the Invasion.


	3. Grand Schemes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are heating up in the Annex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Miss Rona's extended world tour has made life pretty interesting. I coughed the other day and contemplated ending it all. I've also been moving out of college since most institutions are switching to an online format. Time flies so fast when your life has no structure.  
> Aside from that, there is the official first chapter of AWAS! It was a bit difficult to write, but I finally got it done.  
> CONTENT WARNING: Violence

Theron Lycan  
Westedge, 28 War

***

“Watch yourself, Lycan,” the Governor spat. He used Theron’s family name as if it were an insult – a foul word that sullied his mouth just by speaking it.

Silas Wolff, Head of the Wolff Clan and Governor of the Annex, leaned forward in his seat. His hair, gone white with age, was arranged in a style reminiscent of the werewolf warriors of old. Many years on the battlefield had earned him the right to wear it. The array of deep scars etched into his dark skin made him look all the more fearsome. Orange-gold eyes peered suspiciously at many of the vassal clan leaders seated before him. 

Theron Lycan was one of them. Head of the Lycan Clan and Lord of Beowulf Tower, Theron had been called to serve Silas Wolff and the Werewolf Insurgency since he was old enough to fight. He was now a man grown; the war and his own five children had added much gray to his black hair.

The other clan heads and the Wolff household guards and servants glanced between Theron and Silas, observing their tense interaction. Disputes between the two men had become frequent occurrences in the last few years. Theron could now hardly speak in the Governor’s presence without his words being criticized, ignored, or a lovely combination of both. This meeting was no different. 

“My lord–” Theron began, attempting to remain civil. It was a miracle that he had yet to snap at the man he was meant to answer to.

“Your Majesty,” Wolff corrected. 

The others in the great hall of Scarwood Hold shifted uncomfortably. Wolff had recently declared himself the Sovereign of Lunae Lumen. His aim was to restore the fallen werewolf kingdom of Lunae Lumen using Eurydice itself. Westedge would be its capital; Scarwood Hold the royal stronghold. Despite hearing their Governor use this title on multiple occasions, the people were still taken aback each time. 

Theron allowed himself a few moments to collect himself, lest he say something unfavorable in his displeasure. He would need to distract Wolff tactfully. One mistake, and he risked revealing his hand to a man that was quickly becoming a more dangerous enemy than the Ironhill ever was. 

Nearly three decades ago, Silas Wolff had precipitated the great civil war referred to as the Werewolf Insurgency. After tensions between the werewolves and the crown reached a boiling point, Wolff called his people to arms and launched a full-scale attack. This would be known as the Invasion of Stepes – a series of conquests that saw the Insurgents breaching the largest Eurydicean region. 

With access to the rich fields of Stepes, the Insurgents significantly bolstered their forces. Over several years, they occupied so much of this agriculturally important region that Sovereign Damien Caedis himself led the Garrison against them. This proved to be a fatal mistake, and the Bloody Serpent would die attempting to reclaim Stepes during the Siege of Tyrant’s March. 

Ayden Caedis, his son, would next assume the throne. Despite limited experience, the new Sovereign had the advantages of youth and the full support of the Governor of Briar at his side. With ruthlessness rivalling his parents’ and battle tactics bordering on reckless, the Young Viper slowly but surely pushed the Insurgents back towards the west. His most ambitious campaign, the Liberation of Homestead, ended with the removal of the Insurgents from Homestead – their strongest base outside of the Annex. 

Unpredictable or not, even Ayden Caedis was wise enough to avoid direct confrontation with the werewolves in the Annex. Instead, he had reinstated the Skyreach clan as the Governors of Stepes and restored much of the crown’s influence on the western side of Eurydice. 

Although the war had dragged on for twenty-eight years, less than half of it was spent in combat. The Kingdom of Eurydice would spend a time thrashing upon itself much like the waves of the wild Northern Sea, before mirroring the calmer Southern Sea. The last three or so years had seen only small battles and skirmishes as both sides sat at an uncomfortable impasse. 

An impasse that Silas Wolff planned to break. 

“Your Majesty,” Theron said, hating the taste of the words on his tongue, “this plan is rash. There are too many variables - too many uncertainties. Surely–”

“I did not ask for your counsel, Lycan.” 

With each word from Wolff, Theron felt less remorse for what was soon to occur. He spared a brief glance around the great hall, reminding himself of the locations of Anoki Mooncrest, Morgana Cairn, and Cassandra Lupine. Of all the vassal leaders, these were the three Theron trusted most. They would be essential for his plan. 

“Your Majesty, if I may,” Anoki Mooncrest said, seeing that Theron was getting nowhere with their recalcitrant leader. He was a large man, aged and imposing. “Lady Livingstone is not the type to break neutrality. She would hesitate to accept this proposal.” 

“Lyra Livingstone is like all mages before her,” Silas responded, looking to the Head of the Mooncrest Clan. “She will side with whoever makes her feel most important. We are evenly matched with the crown’s forces. With support from Coven, we can finally break this damned deadlock.”

 _We are not nearly at the strength of the Garrison,_ Theron thought ruefully. _The Wolffs have spent too much time hiding in Scarwood Hold. Caedis’ army inches ever closer, and yet here sits our precious ‘Sovereign’ talking of grand schemes._

Oblivious to his people, the Governor-turned-Sovereign launched into said schemes. Each was more unfeasible than the last. Swaying Coven and the Seas out of neutrality, sailing west to the countries on Sol, even arranging marriages between Wolff’s grandchildren and royals from Amaterasu. The man truly believed that no one would question his suddenly royal lineage, Theron realized with a bleak sort of amusement. 

Everett Cairn, the son of Morgana Cairn, entered the great hall from a side door. Everett had married Lorelei Lycan, Theron’s eldest child and heir, a few moons ago. He was handsome enough, with the classic werewolf features of dark hair, olive skin, and golden eyes. What mattered, however, were his family connections. 

Theron discretely retreated to Everett’s side. The young man nodded respectfully at his father-in-law. He dipped his head, and in a low voice whispered the words Theron had been itching to hear since arriving at Scarwood Hold. 

“There are watchers in the tower.” 

Everett continued on his journey, silently whispering those six words to each vassal leader he encountered. Theron watched him go, before looking towards the Governor. The bloodthirsty beast of a man had his attention held by Lord Mooncrest and Lady Cairn. Theron and Cassandra Lupine locked eyes, and she gave the briefest of nods. 

They both reached for the flare guns at their sides, before suddenly launching clouds of blue and gray smoke towards different windows in the Hold. 

Within seconds, the werewolves had drawn their weapons. Swords, knives, bayonets, and rifles were pulled from sheaths and hidden compartments. The Wolff guards within the Hold were unprepared for the sudden flurry of activity. Theron’s allies bore down on them, taking down as many as they could. Servants screamed and fled. 

Outside, Theron could also hear the sounds of battle. Sword clashed against sword, and more than a few shots were being fired. People were shouting, commands were being tossed across the yard. Horses neighed and whined in distress; dogs barked and howled in alarm. Theron was not surprised to hear snarls and shrieks that could only be from people fighting while Shifted. 

Theron pulled out his sword, and swung at the nearest Wolff supporter. Assuming his plans held, the Lycan forces would be storming the underside of the Hold. A few of his soldiers were entrusted with finding the rest of the Wolff family – Silas’ son and grandchildren – and preventing their escape while Theron secured Scarwood Hold. More Mooncrest fighters would be entering the great hall, serving to overwhelm the Wolff guards. The other clans – Cairns, Lupines, Tikaanis, Maheegans, and more – would surround the Hold from the outside. Theron was not going to allow a single Wolff ally to leave with their life. 

Despite his age and growing instability, Silas Wolff was still quick with a sword. He was engaged in combat with fighters wearing the colors of different families. Theron steadied his own longsword, made short work of the Wolff guards he was tussling with, and rushed to where the Wolff patriarch stood. He slipped around a Maheegan warrior, sending a well-placed jab at Silas’ left leg. Wolff blocked Theron’s blow, but he did so at an awkward angle. 

Although Theron himself was well into his forties, he was a seasoned fighter. He Shifted such that his claws were exposed, and took a swipe at Wolff’s shoulder. Blood burst from the wound, but the man scarcely reacted. Wolff wrenched Theron’s sword away from him, leaving the Lycan without his weapon. 

Without missing a beat, Theron Shifted again such that his teeth were larger, sharper, deadlier. He ran at Wolff, before feinting to the right and sliding behind the man. The false Sovereign turned around, prepared to deliver a powerful swing towards Theron. 

Cassandra Lupine stepped forth at that moment, firing a well-placed shot into the shoulder Theron had previously wounded. That managed to draw a pained howl from him, much to Theron’s pleasure. He used Silas’ momentary distraction to sink his teeth deep into the man’s left arm. Cassandra fired a few more shots, but Theron’s proximity to Silas limited her range. He leapt back towards her, spitting out a mouthful of blood. Cassandra resumed fire, aiming for areas on the man that would incapacitate but not kill. 

Impressive as ever, it took multiple rounds before Silas Wolff fell to the ground. 

Theron glanced about the great hall while Cassandra stood poised over their former leader. Most werewolves were still locked in combat. Wolff was frothing and raving, shouting curses at both of them. 

“Traitors!” he screamed over the noise, bleeding heavily. “Scum! You would betray your Sovereign?” 

“I see no Sovereign here,” Cassandra spat, “just a mad dog that would lead us to ruin.” 

Theron observed them neutrally. He was breathing hard, and grimaced when he thought of the bruises that would no doubt form in the coming days. His attention was pulled away by an infantryman that bore the Lycan colors of silver, blue, and black. They approached him quickly, before standing at attention. 

“My lord,” they said, “we have the Lord and Lady in our custody, along with their four children. What are your orders?” 

“Find some room and lock them in there. I do not care which. Do not let them escape,” Theron said coolly, after catching his breath. 

The infantryman nodded, running off in the direction that they had come. Around them, the fighting had begun to die out as Theron’s allies slowly overpowered Wolff’s. 

Silas Wolff’s rage fell on deaf ears. 

*** 

The next day saw Theron in the great hall. Sleep had not come easy, and he was tired. Still, the day ahead promised to be eventful. Everyone in the Hold was restless, what with the uncertain future they all faced.

Theron looked at the banners hanging along the walls and ceilings. Some bore the symbol of the Wolff Clan – a white wolf on a field of black and gray. Others were of the Insurgents, with the same white wolf displayed on a field of red atop black. Theron commanded nearby Lycan soldiers to tear them all down. 

With their old leaders deposed and trapped in their own dungeons, there was much talk amongst the werewolves. The low rumble of voices could be heard throughout the great hall. Theron beckoned Cassandra, Anoki, and Morgana closer to his side. They obliged, and the four of them made their way to Silas’ seat at the front of the Hold. A hush fell.

“What happens now?” a Maheegan lordling asked, addressing the elephant in the room. Others muttered questions of a similar nature. 

Silas’ rule had started out well enough. At the beginning of the war, many werewolves were more than willing to die for his cause. Death before surrender, the Wolffs preached. Vengeance for Daron Wolfrose. As the years progressed, many lost this vision - the werewolves did not know what they were dying for. To Theron, there was only one solution. The Wolffs could not stand. 

Theron and many of the clan leaders had spent months planning the removal of their lieges. A new clan would be given dominion over the Annex, and another Governor would lead them. The Lycan, Mooncrest, Cairn, and Lupine families had been his most influential supporters.

What Theron had yet to reveal was that his ambitions ran deeper. He already knew who he wanted to appoint as the new Governor. 

Himself. 

Theron raised a hand, calling the werewolves to attention. This next step required careful words. The great hall quieted as the werewolves turned expectant eyes to he and the other three leaders. 

“We have won a victory here,” he began, “but it is not over. There are doubtless many in the Annex that would protest the removal of the Wolffs. I presume that those standing before me are in support?” 

An affirmative rise came from his audience. Theron was pleased. He nodded to the people, accepting their response. Now came time for the most crucial decision. Theron stepped back, allowing one of his allies to speak. It would not do to appear too eager for the position. It was Morgana Cairn who spoke next.

“The Wolffs have governed the Annex since the days of the Tyrant,” she said, her deep voice carrying strongly across the Hold. “We have lost countless sons and daughters fighting their wars. We have lost parents, spouses, brothers, sisters, and friends. It is time for a change.” 

“What is this change?” a woman asked. She bore the greens and browns of the Maheegans. 

Morgana looked towards the woman. Her yellow eyes were hard as flints, and the fires of determination blazed in them. 

“A new Great Clan, and a new Governor. For the first time since the Rose Era, our people will have control. We will choose, here and now, who will lead us into peace and prosperity.” 

Voices rang from the amongst the crowd. People shouted both in favor of and against Morgana’s words. It was unheard of for a region to choose its own Governor. This title was hereditary, the most powerful of the non-royal titles, and was always held by the Head of reach region’s Great Clan. 

Of course, the Insurgents had just incapacitated their Great Clan. 

“The time has come for change,” Cassandra Lupine spoke over the din, echoing Morgana’s words. “We shall have a new Governor. We will decide now, as one body.” 

Many names were thrown out by the people gathered in the great hall. Some volunteered themselves, or suggested family members. Others still insisted that the next Governor be chosen from the stock that had not participated in the sack of Scarwood Hold. Theron waited patiently as they argued over themselves. 

Anoki Mooncrest was not so patient. He howled, quieting the hall. The people looked at him with surprise. He was not a man that spoke often. If there was anyone whose words were held in high esteem by Annexians, it was him. Theron waited. 

“Your daughters, such fierce warriors, were butchered when Wolff ordered our troops east to where we had not been before,” Anoki said, looking towards Lord Tikaani. A pained look came upon the lord’s face at the mention of the daughters he lost during the Eastern Assault. 

“And you, Lady Maheegan,” Mooncrest continued, “how many siblings and cousins did you lose six years ago when Julius Wolff abandoned his station in Dadia’s Rest? That vile coward fled here, to the safety of Westedge, while they gave their lives fighting in Homestead. 

“The Wolffs have led our people astray. There is a clear answer to this question we have all been asking. He has served the Annex wholeheartedly, both on and off the battlefield. A man whose counsel Silas Wolff was too foolish to realize won many of our victories. He has brought us another victory on this day - the man responsible for the downfall of our so-called Sovereign.

“Theron Lycan.” 

There was a pause. A murmur of assent slowly began to spread through the crowd. There was talk of how skilled Theron was with command. The people spoke of the love Lunares had for his wife Celestina Lycan, of how she had managed much of the eastern Annex while Theron was called to Silas’ side. Even of his children – Ezra Lycan was an excellent fighter, and there was nary a noble lord or lady that had not been charmed by Lorelei Lycan. 

By the time talk reached his eldest children, Theron knew that he had succeeded. The Annex would accept him as the new Governor. It was time to deliver his message.

“You hold my family and I in high regard,” Theron began, the picture of humility, “and for that, I am honored. I do not wish to keep secrets, and so I will speak frankly. 

“This war has lasted near-on three decades. The crown has avoided entering the Annex, but there is only so much time before the Young Viper enlists Coven and the Seas. We are born and bred from the fiercest warriors – the chosen people of Remus. But the Annex will not win against the full force of the crown’s Garrison.” 

“What would you have us do?” someone from the crowd asked. Theron turned to them. 

“I offer peace. A return to the Kingdom of Eurydice. An end to the fighting, to the bloodshed – a world our children need. For all the Sovereign is, he is not a foolish man. The Annex will be reintegrated into Eurydice. This would be my first act as Governor, if you will have me.” 

Theron finished speaking, and allowed a brief silence to last in the great hall. After digesting his words, the werewolves began to nod amongst themselves. Soon, they began to give cheers and hopeful cries.

“Peace! Peace! Peace to the Annex! One nation, unified!” 

Anoki Mooncrest drew his sword and presented the body to Theron. He knelt before his son-in-law.

“You have protected my daughter,” he stated, “and you have protected Lunares. Now, you will protect the Annex. This sword is an extension of me, and it is yours to command. I shall serve you, Lord Governor.” 

Cassandra and Morgana followed. Then their people. One by one, the werewolves knelt and presented their weapons to Theron. He rested his right hand on the body of Anoki’s sword. 

“The words of the Lycan Clan are ‘neither broken nor timid’,” Theron mused. “We have spent years in blood and darkness, but that will be no more. On my pride as a Lycan, the Annex will be broken no more. I would be honored to serve as your Governor, as will my children and grandchildren after me.” 

The werewolves howled their approval, but the Lycan soldiers were loudest of all. _Silas Wolff would rip out his own eyes out before witnessing this,_ Theron thought gladly. 

Eventually, the howls and cheers died down. There was much activity as everyone readjusted. Theron remained in the great hall a while more with his people, from the great lords and ladies to the lowest servants of Scarwood Hold. His rule as Governor would be less contested if the Annex believed him fairer than his predecessors. 

Afterwards, he retired to his chambers. Despite the late hour, he was not here to sleep. There was much work to be done in the coming weeks. This was but half of his plan. The crown would need to officially recognize him as the Governor. Then there was yet still the matter of rejoining Eurydice - another term that the Sovereign would need to agree to. 

Theron Lycan, Head of the Lycan Clan and elected Governor of the Annex, picked up a pen and began to write the letter that would end the war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spotlight: Wolff Clan 
> 
>   
> The Wolffs are the Great Clan of the Annex, and their seat is Scarwood Hold in Westedge. One of the oldest branches of Eurydicean nobility, they have held power over werewolves for centuries. Avid believers in the Old Way, the Wolffs have historically been the embodiment of werewolf pride. The natural werewolf willfulness combined with nurtured stubbornness make for a house that refuses to surrender and is difficult to defeat. Not all werewolves are imbued with such legendary obstinance, however. Many vassal clan leaders and their people have begun to wonder if it is time for a change in command.  
> The Wolff words are "Take What They Owe". The recent members are:  
> Silas Wolff, Lord of Scarwood Hold and Governor of the Annex. He is the Head of the Wolff Clan.  
> Julius Wolff, heir to Scarwood Hold and son of Silas Wolff.  
> Dionysia Wolff, wife of Julius Wolff. She is half-werewolf.  
> Sakura Wolff, first child of Julius and Dionysia. She is 15.  
> Archie Wolff, second child of Julius and Dionysia. He is 14.  
> Elias Wolff, third child. He is 12.  
> Cornelia Wolff, fourth child. She is 8.


	4. Leaders of This Nation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We meet some important players in the great game of politics.

Ayden Caedis  
The Ironhill, 28 War

***

Ayden gasped as his head broke the surface of the water. 

He dragged himself out of the lake and began to cough up as much liquid as he could. If he lost a lung, well, he wouldn’t be surprised. After several painful retches, the man could finally breathe. He flopped onto his side, away from the watery mess, and moaned in discomfort. 

Ayden Caedis I, Sovereign Ruler of the Kingdom of Eurydice, Head of the Caedis Clan and Governor of Sanguis, had nearly drowned in a shallow garden lake. 

“Gods, you’re so dramatic,” a person said. 

They had the slow and rich accent of Briar, their words rolling with ease. They sounded much like Ayden, although years in the capital had left him prone to softening his own Briarean intonation. Ayden looked up at the owner of the voice with a scowl. 

“What the hell, Arion? I thought you hated water magic,” he sulked.

Arion Sylph laughed, completely remorseless. He was quite a handsome man, with skin the color of brown honey, warm brown eyes that blazed in the light, and softly-curling black hair. His pointed ears, typical of elves, twitched in amusement. That ordinarily friendly smile had taken on a mischievous appearance. 

“Doesn’t mean I won’t use it,” Arion responded, waving a hand lazily. A small section of the lake responded to the elemental’s command, the water slowly rising. 

Ayden glanced up and sighed at the growing sphere of water floating above his head. He leapt to his feet, and used Arion’s momentary surprise to his advantage. Ayden reached for Legionnaire, his fallen blacksteel claymore, and swung it at the elf.

Arion deftly moved away from him using air magic, one of his dual affinities. He rose a stone column from the ground using earth magic - his other affinity. Ayden smashed through the stone, but was winded when Arion launched a decorative rock from the gardens into his side. Ayden deflected it using Legionnaire, but his body felt the strain.

“How did I take hits from you and just walk them off as a child?” Ayden gasped, running a hand through his damp locks. Though he trained often, one would think him a novice with the way his muscles complained each time. 

“You’ve finally reached the ripe old age of thirty-one,” Arion joked. “Thou hast lived finely, for the bitter offerings of the earth seldom graced thy palate.” 

Ayden glared at him, and began to peel off some of his soaked clothes. _This is probably a bad idea,_ Ayden thought, glancing at the sun that was still high in the sky. Without his sunshade-laced garments to protect him, it wouldn’t be long before his skin started to burn. He would burn that bridge when he got there. 

“We’re the same age,” he said after pulling off his shirt, “and thirty-one isn’t that old. I’m still looking forward to many more terrible years.” 

“Terrible? You’re so pessimistic.” 

Arion strutted towards the little bench by the lake. Ayden walked over to him, grabbed Arion’s overcoat, and began drying his hair. He grinned at Arion’s scandalized look.

“I’ve spent the last, what, twelve years fighting a war that started with my mother and was made worse by my father,” Ayden responded. “I’m expected to end a war that is almost as old as I am. I think I’m allowed to be pessimistic.” 

At the mention of the war, his old friend’s handsome face grew pensive. Ayden cursed himself. He had dragged the Suzerain out of the Redfyre Palace and into the gardens in the hopes that he could avoid thinking of the thrice-damned war. 

“About ending the war,” Arion began, his eyes no longer sparkling, “have you given more thought to Lycan’s proposal? It might be the answer we’ve been searching for.” 

That dull, familiar ache spread through Ayden’s chest. It had been there for near-on six years now. Although he was no longer crippled with grief, there were some days when the urge to stay in his chambers and avoid everyone was almost overwhelming. Ayden looked at some small white poppies that were blowing softly in the wind.

“Do I have to?” he asked, softly caressing a petal. “I don’t know if I can. It feels too soon, after Selene.” Ayden trailed off. It still hurt to say her name sometimes, too. He wondered if it would ever stop hurting. 

Arion approached him, and gently rested a hand on the vampire’s exposed shoulder. He waited until Ayden tore his eyes away from the poppies. Once Ayden was looking at him, Arion began to speak.

“Ayden,” he said, his voice soft and sad. Ayden hated it when Arion was sad. “I loved Selene as well, you know that. I still mourn her – still weep for her. Your pain is mine.”

Selene Caedis, Ayden’s wife and the former Potentate of the Kingdom of Eurydice, died six years ago. She had had no patience for political games, Ayden remembered, and believed that actions spoke louder than words. Her plan had been to campaign for peace in the heart of the Annex – to make herself known to their people out west. Ayden had begged her not to go, and when that failed, he begged her to take as many guards as they could spare. 

Selene had ridden out to the Annex without her royal guards or even a proper delegation. _No armies, no fighters. This is how we can show the Insurgents that we are ready for peace,_ she had said. Ayden had argued with her. They disagreed much in the days before she left the Ironhill. Selene took only a small party with her the night he had threatened to lock her in the Palace for her own safety. 

She never came back. Gray Waste, healers said. Contracted from some remote orphanage in Wildland. She’d kept her symptoms hidden until it was too late. It was something that she would’ve done, Ayden thought with a sad fondness. Even in death, she was still Selene. 

_Wildland,_ he had thought when he’d been told of her death. _That’s far north of Lupus Crossing. She didn’t even make it all the way into the Annex._

They said she wore white poppies in her hair while she was still alive. White poppies, for peace. 

Arion was still speaking. “Grief can last a lifetime,” the Suzerain said, “but this war doesn’t have to. I think you should reconsider.” 

Ayden laughed tiredly. “It’s easy for you to stand there and tell me to marry a stranger when you have Persephone waiting for you at Briarlight.” 

“The surrender of the Insurgents would end the war without the need to fight in the Annex,” Arion countered. “A peaceful resolution in exchange for a marriage. You don’t even have to like whoever Theron Lycan is offering.”

The mention of Theron Lycan gave Ayden his chance to shift the conversation away from marriage. Battle and political strategies were areas he was comfortable with. 

“How do we even know that Lord Lycan can sway the Insurgents away from the Wolffs?” Ayden asked, skeptical. “Werewolves are stubborn and loyal to a fault. Will the vassals truly abandon their ancient lieges for the crown they spent decades resisting?” 

Arion opened his mouth to respond, before pausing. He fiddled with his golden earrings, his body language communicating his uncertainty. The Suzerain did not need to think long, however, as a servant quickly bounded towards the two men. She squeaked at Ayden’s state of partial undress, bowing deeply to cover her embarrassment. 

“Your Majesty, Lord Suzerain,” she greeted, still bowing low, “I have been sent by Lady Reyna. She has received a missive from the Annex. Her Ladyship requests an audience at your earliest convenience, if it please you.” 

Ayden and Arion locked eyes. Ayden reached for Legionnaire, sheathing the great black sword at his side. He turned wistfully towards the quiet gardens one last time, before donning the mask of the Sovereign of Eurydice.

“Summon the Circle.” 

***

“I don’t appreciate being pulled from my suite,” Fiona Sylph, Head of the Sylph Clan and Governor of Briar, stated dryly. 

She and the leaders of the nation were gathered in the War Room of the Palace. They sat around the War Table, a great table crafted from fine wood. The map of the kingdom and its territories was painted on its surface. Little pieces, representing different players in the grand game of politics, could be moved across the map as needed. 

Arion looked amused at his mother’s perpetual irritation. Despite her age and her long-held status as a Governor, Lady Fiona was active in the affairs of Eurydice as its Master of Finance. Only, she was the Master in all but name. The sharp-tongued elf had continually refused to formally accept the position.

As the highest-ranking person in the room, Ayden sat at the head of the great table. Arion was seated at his right, and Fiona was to his left. The remaining positions were occupied by the other two Masters – Defense and Intelligence. The realm had not had a proper Master of Society since Ayden was young. The opposite head of the table was meant for the Potentate, although it was empty. It may not be empty much longer, if Ayden’s suspicions about this meeting were correct.

“My apologies, Lady Fiona. This is of the utmost importance,” Reyna Tydus said. 

Her ice-blue eyes did not look particularly apologetic. The Master of Intelligence ran a perfectly manicured hand through her hair, the dark tresses contrasting sharply with her pale skin. She was dressed in the Tydus colors of red and black, accentuating her strong vampiric features. 

“We’re all quite busy, Reyna. What is the matter at hand?” asked Hyperion Tydus, the Master of Defense and Head of the Tydus Clan. 

He was Reyna’s older brother. The two of them shared the pale skin and icy blue eyes of the Tydus family, although his own wavy blond locks contrasted Reyna’s straight black hair. It was quite like Hyperion to talk of the other things he had to be doing. Ayden wasn’t entirely sure what it was that constantly demanded the man’s attention. 

“I’ve been receiving some interesting news from the Annex. Our little werewolf friend has been making some big moves,” Reyna responded. This drew the attention of the Sovereign. Ayden narrowed his red eyes. 

Not long ago, the Lord of Beowulf Tower had written to the crown with a plan to end the war. Theron Lycan had claimed that he could sway the Insurgents away from the Wolffs. The werewolves would rally behind him, he’d written, once they were no longer bound to their former lieges. If the crown named him Governor of the Annex, Lord Lycan would have the command to remove the rest of the Insurgents from Stepes and issue an official surrender. The Annex would return to Eurydice, and the crown wouldn’t have to lift a finger. 

To show his commitment, Theron Lycan had offered one of his children to the crown. His own son would wed the Sovereign. It seemed like a bold proposal, but Ayden read between the lines. Though this would make him Potentate, the young man – Quill Lycan – would effectively be a prisoner in the capital. As long as Quill Lycan was in the Ironhill, the werewolves would behave. The crown, for their part, could not publicly hurt him without reigniting the war. He would be the physical representation of the leash binding Eurydice and the Annex.

Ayden had two children of his own. Lucien and Esmerelda Caedis – the royal twins. Many highborn lords and ladies used their children for political games, but Ayden could scarcely imagine sending his into the hands of an enemy. As usual, his musings were interrupted by the Inner Circle. 

“How did Lord Lycan depose the Wolffs so quickly?” Hyperion asked, a frown on his face. His eyes were calculating. As the Master of Defense, such changes in the balance of power were of his concern. 

Reyna rose from her seat, and strolled to where Ayden sat. She leaned over and placed a letter before him that was sealed with a wax tower. 

“This arrived for you today, Your Majesty,” she said lowly. “Given what my spies have gathered, I suspect that it is Theron Lycan’s official announcement of the removal of the Wolffs. The tower is the sigil of the Lycan Clan.” 

Ayden opened the message, and scanned it quickly. “Your suspicions are correct, Lady Reyna. The Insurgents have turned on their lieges.” He slid the letter towards the others, allowing them to read it for themselves. Reyna returned to her seat across from her brother. 

“Surely this is a trap,” Hyperion said. “They would be wasting resources taking out the Wolffs if they just planned to come back to the crown.” 

“This fool’s war has lasted long enough,” Fiona countered, “like as not, Lord Lycan would sooner suffer the spoils of surrender than the agonies of defeat.” 

“The spoils of surrender? When did you become such a poet, mother?” Arion teased. 

The aged woman glared at her son. She constantly lamented his sociable nature and frequent jokes; she’d done so ever since he was a boy. It didn’t help that Arion’s humorous side was strongest when a situation called for solemnity.

The chatter of the Inner Circle did not help ease Ayden. Theron Lycan had taken Scarwood Hold. Reyna’s network of spies confirmed this. Lycan had delivered – now it was time for them to fulfil their end of the bargain. 

Declaring Lord Lycan as the new Governor would be easy enough. Transitioning between Great Clans was awkward, but it could be done. The Caedis Clan, after all, had been vassals themselves until the Rose Era. 

No, Ayden’s hesitance was from a more personal matter. The last clause – the marriage to Quill Lycan. The pros outweighed the cons. It would stop the violence and end the war. The realm would have a Potentate. Ayden could focus on properly rebuilding Eurydice without his efforts being undone by conflict. 

The answer was clear. And yet Ayden struggled to accept the proposal. 

It had always been Ayden, Selene, and Arion. Selene and Ayden were betrothed early, even for highborn children. She had been fresh out of infancy, and Lilith von Drake had yet to give birth to the crown prince. After Ayden’s mother was assassinated, Sovereign Damien Caedis had sent Ayden and Selene to Briargarden for their safety. The three of them had grown up together in the safety of Briarlight, under Lady Fiona’s watchful eye. The Demons of the East, they’d been called. Even when Ayden took the throne after his father, the three of them were together. 

The thought of having a new Potentate felt like opening the wound Ayden had spent years trying to close. He was being selfish, he knew he was. This marriage would be strictly political; the only way to ensure that Eurydice would move past the events of the War Era. As Arion had pointed out in the gardens, Ayden wouldn’t even have to like Quill Lycan. 

_Gods, being Sovereign is hard,_ Ayden lamented. _Echolyse give me strength and wisdom. No doubt I will need both in the coming months._

“It appears His Majesty is deep in thought,” Fiona drawled. 

Ayden snapped to attention, and gave her a grin he hoped would vex her. Aggravating Fiona Sylph had been a favorite pastime of the three Demons. They’d likely taken years off of her lifespan with all of their antics. 

“I’m lost in pleasant thoughts,” Ayden responded, “of my future husband. No doubt having a little Insurgent glaring at me any time I breathe will spice up the marriage bed.” 

“I’ve always been curious about Shifting. Perhaps we can find out if werewolves can change _every_ part of their bodies.” Arion was not one to miss an opportunity for banter. He winked at Reyna as she chuckled at his innuendo. 

Hyperion, for his part, was not amused. 

“Your Majesty,” the Master of Defense said, his frown somehow deepening, “correct me if I am mistaken, but it appears that you plan to accept the marriage. It’s a ridiculous idea proposed by a rebel. Wolff or Lycan, the Annex is still being led by an Insurgent.” 

“An Insurgent that can give us the upper hand,” Arion countered. “An Insurgent that no longer wishes to be an Insurgent. We approve this, and the war is as good as won.” 

“How can we be sure that Theron Lycan will do as he claims?” Reyna asked, reading the man’s letter once more. “Until his son is here in the capital, the crown has no hold over him. Hyperion’s suspicions are reasonable.” 

Ayden picked up one of the figurines on the map. It was a wolf, representing the Annex. He stared at it in thought, listening as the Inner Circle discussed possible decisions. He twirled the small wolf in his hands idly. 

Reyna was correct. Lycan seemed intelligent enough to know that submitting to the crown would be in the Annex’s best interest. Without having his son in the Ironhill, however, there were no guarantees of the man’s loyalty. 

Ayden stood up, and placed the wolf on the image of Lupus Crossing. He grabbed a crown and slid it past Homestead, on the border between the Annex and Stepes. The Inner Circle grew quiet as they waited for him to explain his actions. He began to speak once he was satisfied. 

“We will grant Lycan the Governor title,” Ayden said, “and he will withdraw the rest of the Insurgents from Stepes.” He motioned towards Homestead, where the bear of Stepes rested. “Arion and I will travel to the Annexian border once we are able. We’ll stay in Dadia’s Rest, or with some noble near there. It doesn’t matter to me. Then,” he dragged the wolf towards the crown, “we’ll meet the Insurgents for their official surrender. Shake hands, pat backs, whatever we need to do.” 

Ayden next moved both the wolf and the crown to the capital. “Once that’s done, we’ll return to the Palace. Lycan’s son will come with us to secure the Annex.” He looked at Fiona, Reyna, and Hyperion. “You three will stay here in our absence. Eurydice is large – I anticipate this taking at least a couple weeks.” 

The Masters paused as they contemplated his words. It was Lady Fiona that acted first. She moved the wolf back towards the Annex. Then, she picked up a snake and a rose, the symbols of Sanguis and Briar, and placed them near the wolf.

“This plan is acceptable,” she began, “but I would make a change. The Sovereign stays in the Palace, where he belongs-” she gave Ayden a pointed look “-while the Suzerain and Master of Defense accept the surrender in his stead. Everything else holds.” 

“Protecting Ayden from a trap, but not me. I’m wounded, mother,” Arion mumbled good-naturedly. Fiona rolled her eyes at him. 

“Approved,” Ayden was too tired to argue. He looked at one of the pieces that had yet to move - the Philosopher’s Stone of Coven. The mage-dominated region had relied on an old treaty that allowed them to remain neutral during the war. 

“It's about time Coven re-joins the realm,” Ayden said. His eyes roved over the map, wondering how best to utilize the mages. 

"I have a suggestion," the Master of Intelligence stated. “I will write to Lyra Livingstone, and have her send a delegation from Coven to meet Lords Arion and Hyperion at Lupus Crossing.” 

"To what end?" Fiona inquired. Reyna turned towards her. 

"Secrecy," she said, "and speed. The Lycan, and whatever envois accompany them, will move slower than the royal party. Having them travel through Coven while the crown rides through Stepes would give us enough time to regroup and plan for their arrival." 

The Sovereign turned to his closest friend. “Send a missive to Ramsay Skyreach. Let him know of you and Hyperion’s arrival.” Arion hummed his assent. 

Finally, Ayden turned to Fiona. “Lady Fiona, begin preparations for their arrival. That is, if you can find it in your heart to do so. Given that you're still not the Master of Finance. ” She didn’t appreciate Ayden’s humor, it seemed. He flashed his fangs at her in a fond smile. 

“I’ll see to the rest,” Ayden said, reading Theron’s letter once more. “Let me know when travel plans are prepared. You are dismissed.” 

Hyperion bowed, and was the first to leave. _Probably off to do whatever it is he does,_ Ayden thought. Arion and Reyna excused themselves together, the elf chatting animatedly and the vampire tuning him out. 

Fiona paused by Ayden’s side. She sighed softly, and placed a jewelled hand on his shoulder before continuing on her journey. It was but the briefest of touches, barely there, but Ayden understood. Selene had been Fiona’s charge as much as Ayden. A new Potentate would be an uncomfortable change for all of them, it would seem.

Ayden looked at the empty seat at the opposite end of the table. It would be weird to see it filled. 

_Things are going to get pretty interesting around here. Gods, being Sovereign is hard._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spotlight: Caedis Clan  
>   
>   
> The Caedis clan is fairly old, although there are older vampire clans out there. Former vassals, the Caedis family were promoted to a Great Clan after the extinction of the Bloodworths during the First Mage Uprising. They came into power after Celeste Caedis was declared the new Sovereign at the end of the Ambition Era, although she did not assume the throne until the start of the Gold Era. Their ancestral home is Serpentspire, which still houses some of the cadet branches of the Caedis family. The lower members live in and around the city of Redmouth. The main family stays in the Redfyre Palace, although it is not unusual for them to visit Serpentspire. The Sovereign still keeps the title of Governor of Sanguis, as the Caedises are technically the most powerful family in that region. The Caedis words are "The Night Lays Claim". Recent members include:  
> {Damien Caedis}, previous Sovereign of Eurydice. He died in the Siege of Tyrant's March. Called the Bloody Serpent.  
> {Lilith von Drake}, wife of Damien Caedis and previous Potentate of Eurydice. She was assassinated in Courtmere.  
> Liam Caedis, younger brother of Damien Caedis. He oversees much of Sanguis from Serpentspire.  
> Ayden Caedis, current Sovereign. Called the Young Viper.  
> {Selene Caedis (née Lazarus)}, former Potentate. Presumably died of illness in the northern Annex.  
> Lucien Caedis, son of Ayden and Selene. Older twin, and Heir Apparent. He is 13.  
> Esmerelda Caedis, daughter of Ayden and Selene. Younger twin sister of Lucien. She is 13.


	5. An Unexpected Message

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Lycans receive some interesting news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first chapter that features a split perspective. I won't do this very often, but I anticipate it showing up at least a few more times. It's also dialogue heavy, so sorry for that.  
> Funny story (at least I thought it was) -> I was reading up on European nobility to better flesh out Eurydice’s political landscape. I switched to the French system, and absentmindedly asked my housemate why I couldn’t find much on modern French nobility but had lots for the British. She just looked at me and went “did you really forget the entire French Revolution?” My brain apparently decided that it wasn’t relevant lmao

Celestina Lycan  
Lunares, 28 War

***

Celestina was beyond livid. It took all of her strength not to burn her husband’s letter. 

Theron Lycan had ridden out to Scarwood Hold at the behest of their Governor, Silas Wolff, some moons ago. Wolff had called for a meeting with his vassal leaders. He had wanted to discuss ways to break the deadlock, Theron stated plainly before departing. As usual, Celestina had been managing the affairs of Lunares from Beowulf Tower during her husband’s absence from his seat. 

Her hands shook as she neatly placed the letter on the table, away from the flickering flames of the hearth. She folded her hands in her lap, hiding her nails as they Shifted between normal length and razor-sharp. 

The Lady of Beowulf Tower had been given this letter from one of the stewards. She had expected it to be much like Theron’s past missives. Instead, each sentence she read had vexed and incensed her more than the last. 

Theron Lycan had unseated Silas Wolff as the Governor of the Annex. Her own father, Lord Anoki Mooncrest, had championed him. The Wolffs were being held captive by the Lycan forces, in their ancestral home of Scarwood Hold. Her husband had already been in correspondence with the crown. The Sovereign would formally instate her family as the new Great Clan, in exchange for the surrender of the Insurgent side. 

Her son, Quill Lycan, was to be sent to the capital to wed the Sovereign. A symbol of the reunification of Eurydice and the end of the war. 

_What nonsense,_ Celestina thought, closing her eyes to avoid seeing that foul paper. _My son will be no better than a war prize. A hostage._

The door of the solar opened, and Celestina watched as Lorelei and Ezra, her two eldest children, entered the room. Celestina had sent a servant to summon them after she had read Theron’s message. They would need to know of their father’s activities. She was overcome with the desire to hold them close, lest they too slipped away from her. 

Lorelei – her and Theron’s heir – sat across from her mother, posture regal as usual. She wore a loose braid much like Celestina’s own, though Lorelei and Quill were the only children to inherit the black hair of the Lycans. Her soft yellow eyes showed her curiosity, although she was too ladylike to demand explanations for Celestina’s summons. 

Ezra took the seat adjacent to his older sister. He was a fine young man, as courteous as Lorelei. The Mooncrest blood ran strong through him, as it did with all of Celestina’s children aside from her first and third. His eyes, so much like hers, shone like beaten gold. He too waited for his mother to speak.

Celestina nodded towards the parchment resting on the table. She did not trust herself to touch it without shredding it. Lorelei, Remus bless her, understood. Her eldest took the letter and held it up so that both she and Ezra could read it. A small smile graced her face when she saw the seal of the wax tower, but it fell soon enough once the message became clear. 

Ezra broke the silence. “Mother,” he said, “what is the meaning of this?” 

If only she had an answer. Now was not the time to appear unsure, however. She needed to be the Lady of the Tower, if for nothing else then for her children. Celestina pulled the cloak of her gown tighter around herself, and began to speak. 

“Your father has taken Scarwood Hold in the name of the Lycans,” she said, hoping her words sounded strong. “He has sent for the three of us, as well as Quill. We are to join him in Westedge as soon as we are able.” 

“What of Viscardi and Luna?” asked Lorelei. She looked deep in thought, her pretty face scrunched in displeasure. It was quite like her to worry about her younger siblings. 

Celestina shook her head. “They will stay here, in Lunares. Viscardi is of an age where he can manage the Tower.” She paused. “With help from the stewards.” 

“Why are we talking as if we’re deciding what to have for dinner?” Ezra asked, distressed. “There’s a second part. Quill is to marry the Sovereign. Father expects us to stand back and watch as he ships my brother, your son, to our enemies?” He began to pace the room, ruffling the brown hair he inherited from her side. 

“Send me to the capital instead,” Ezra continued, “I am older, and not yet married. I’d sooner submit to the whims of the Viper than have it be Quill. What is father thinking, marrying him to the Sovereign? Gods, they must consummate their marriage. What if he forces Quill? No one would be there to stop him.”

“Enough, Ezra.” Celestina’s heart ached. Despite his quiet nature, Celestina knew that her boy was deeply protective of his family. The urge to destroy the letter and claim ignorance to Theron’s summons grew. 

Lorelei, perceptive as always, looked about the room. “Where is Quill, mother? This concerns him as well, more so than any of us.” 

“He was minding Luna,” Celestina said, “in the town near the Tower. I have sent a rider to fetch them both. And Viscardi too, wherever he is.” 

Her daughter nodded. She rose gracefully, and intercepted her brother’s pacing. Lorelei began speaking to him softly. It was well-known that Lorelei had a way with words. Her comforts must have worked, as Celestina saw Ezra release the tiniest bit of tension. 

She doubted even Lorelei could calm the storm that was raging in her mind. Celestina could scarcely imagine Quill in the snake pit that was the Ironhill. At the side of the Sovereign, no less. He was not as trained in diplomacy as his older siblings, nor was he as bold as his younger ones. This unexpected message would tear apart her family, the Lady of the Tower thought. 

Celestina waited for Quill to return. She waited, and she worried.

***  
Quill Lycan  
Lunares, 28 War  
***

The ground crunched underfoot as Quill stalked through the forest. He had enhanced his hearing, listening to the quiet noises around him. A bird chirped; squirrels chittered in the trees. He could hear the soft rush of the water from the unnamed river that passed by the town. 

Quill paused, observing a small footprint in the dirt. There were others, too. He followed them until they disappeared at the base of a thick tree. The werewolf glanced upwards. The many branches swayed gently in the wind. 

The bird had stopped chirping. Quill turned away from the tree, and slowly began to retreat. A bush rustled in the corner of his eye. Quill kept walking for a few paces, before sharply turning and shooting an arrow at the bush.

He heard a surprised yelp, and moments later a scruffy girl rolled out from the foliage. She had several twigs in her twin braids, dirt on her face, and several tears in her clothes. She certainly did not look like the daughter of the high lord that owned the lands they were on.

“Nice try, Luna,” Quill said, smiling at his little sister, “but you’ll have to do better than that. Keep an eye out for your surroundings. The birds stop singing when you’re near.” 

Luna Lycan pouted. “No fair. You always find me first,” she mumbled. 

“I owe it to a lifetime of avoiding mother and father,” Quill responded, ruffling her wild brown locks. “Sneaking out to the Tower’s library when you’re supposed to be sleeping will make even the clumsiest of commonfolk stealthier than a vampire.” 

His little sister fell in step beside him as he followed the path leading out of the forest. She had Shifted as far as she could go outside of the full moon. It was unbecoming of the highborn to be seen Shifted in public, so it was not unusual to find Luna roaming through the trees. The woods were one of the few places where she was able to run wild, Luna had once told him. 

They chatted amicably on their journey towards the village. Luna detailed her latest adventures and all the new ways she had managed to aggravate poor Celestina Lycan. Quill described the history of some half-forgotten clan he had read about. 

Before long, Quill could see the smoke rising from the various homes. Beowulf Tower stood watch over the town in the distance, its watchtowers tall and lonely amidst the far-off mountains. The sun was beginning to set; they would soon be expected back. _I need to find the horses we rode down here. I think they’re tethered near the tavern,_ Quill thought, _but first…_

“Stay out here, Luna,” Quill said. He dipped into the tavern that was popular with the townspeople. Behind the tavern rested a small brothel that was equally, if not more, popular. Quill suspected he would find a familiar face there. Unsurprisingly, Luna followed him inside. 

“And they were from the same village!” A woman proclaimed. There was a resounding gasp from the other scantily-clad workers in the house of ill repute. 

“By the gods, they were from the same village.” 

He knew that voice. It belonged to Viscardi, his little brother. Quill strode through the mass of people preparing themselves for the debaucheries of the night, intent on collecting his other charge.

Viscardi was seated at one of the tables, thankfully fully clothed. A gaggle of women were gathered around him, likely sharing gossip about the other towns in Lunares. Quill’s little brother could often be found sharing tales with the people that lived below the Tower. He frequently engaged with the crones, as if he too was an old woman that toiled the land and birthed many children. His noble status didn’t seem to be relevant to anyone in the establishment. 

“So, I’m standing there, right? Just me and him, toe to toe. I’ve lost my sword, the horse is still in the tree, and the bread is on fire. And you know what happens next?” Viscardi had his little audience entranced. 

“Nothing happens next. You’ve never been in a swordfight, Vis. You don’t even have a sword. Come on, we’re going home.” Quill deftly seized his brother by the collar, dragging him away from his perch. Luna was looking at everyone with wide-eyed curiosity. _I probably shouldn’t have brought her._

The younger werewolf complained as Quill manhandled him out of the adult establishment. 

“Who even let you in there?” Quill asked, raising an eyebrow at Viscardi. 

The teenager harrumphed as he straightened out his attire. “I know a guy who knows a guy,” he said cryptically. “Besides, they let you and even Luna in. They’ll obviously let any person stroll inside.” 

At the mention of her name, Luna raced past her brothers and awkwardly mounted one of their two horses. She glared triumphantly at them from the tall beast. The horse twitched its tail, accustomed to having little werewolf children climbing over it. 

“I got the horse first,” she said, “so I get to ride by myself. Vis has to ride with Quill.” 

“Like hell you are,” Viscardi protested. “Get off my horse, Luna. You can’t ride alone. You’re, like, eight.”

“I’m twelve,’ Luna responded, “and soon to be thirteen!” 

“Basically eight.” 

Quill began to prepare the second horse for travel, amused by their bickering. Despite being of an age with Lorelei and Ezra, Quill still spent much of his time with Viscardi and Luna. Lorelei was their father’s heir, and Ezra her backup. Quill’s position as third-born meant that he would really only be useful for securing alliances through marriage. He loved his older siblings, he really did, but sometimes it was nice to bond with Theron’s other sidelined children. 

Said children were still bickering over which one of them would ride alone. Quill mounted his own, and looked down at his brother. 

“It’s either me or Luna,” he said, “pick your poison, Vis.” 

Viscardi fumed at the both of them. Luna blew a raspberry at him. Quill was content to wait out the stubborn boy, until he saw one of the Tower’s stewards rapidly approaching them on horseback. Quill rode to meet them, leaving the young Lycans to sort themselves out.

“Is something the matter?” Quill asked. He admitted that it was much later than anticipated, but surely the three of them were not gone long enough for someone to send for them. 

The steward shook their head, blinked, and then nodded. “Your mother, Lady Celestina, has requested you and your siblings return to the Tower at once,” they said. 

_I know who my mother is_. Quill nodded. “Many thanks. We were just leaving, in any case.” He turned to his siblings. “Viscardi, you’re riding with Luna. Come on.” 

With that, Quill set his horse off at a quick pace. He sped up once he heard the sound of the other mounts close behind him, Viscardi and Luna still throwing barbs at each other. 

\---

The clumped buildings soon gave way to open land, and eventually they came upon the Tower. Quill dismounted near the stables, allowing the stableman to wrangle the horse. Once his siblings were safely on the ground, they headed towards their parents’ solar. 

“I’m hungry,” Luna said as they climbed the stairs. “How long do you think this will take?”

“Could’ve eaten in the tavern,” Viscardi responded, crossing his arms, “if the great Lord Lycan hadn’t deemed it unfit for our purposes.” 

“You were in the brothel,” Quill retorted, imitating Viscardi’s stance and tone. “We had no purposes in there. And you, Luna,” she jumped in surprise, “should Shift back before mother mounts your head on a spike.” His little sister begrudgingly did as she was told. 

The heavy door at the end of the corridor signaled the end of their journey. Quill knocked twice, before making his way into the room. Luna and Viscardi trailed behind him. 

Immediately, Quill noticed the tense atmosphere. Lorelei and Ezra were seated together by the fire. Ezra looked angry; Lorelei seemed lost in thought. His mother sat at her desk, writing something with a deep concentration. 

Celestina glanced up at their entrance. She looked tired. Several strands of hair had escaped from her braid in a way suggesting stress rather than design. Quill felt a little uncomfortable.

“Sit down, the three of you,” she said softly. They did as she beckoned. 

Once seated, Celestina handed Quill an opened letter. The broken seal looked like a tower – their family’s sigil. Quill furrowed his brow, and began to read it while Viscardi and Luna peeked over his shoulder. 

“I’ll spare you the details,” Ezra suddenly interrupted, sounding bitter. “Father took Scarwood. He’s to be the new Governor. Even the Sovereign approves of it.” 

Quill blinked in surprise. He looked towards his mother. “That’s certainly news to me. Is that why we’re here?” 

She sighed, and shook her head. “There’s more. It concerns you, in particular.” 

Quill was about to ask what she meant, but Lorelei spoke first. 

“The crown sent for you,” she said. “You’re to be the new Potentate.” 

Of all the things he expected to hear, this was definitely at the bottom of his list. Quill gaped at his sister. _Did I hear that right?_ He read over the letter Celestina had handed him when he came in, hoping to better understand what was happening. 

“Jokes are normally funny, Lorelei,” Viscardi snorted his disbelief. 

The message from his father suggested otherwise. Quill felt his blood run cold. Subconsciously, he knew that he’d eventually be expected to marry. With more and more nobles being called to fight by Silas Wolff, however, Quill had secretly hoped that he could avoid being sent off to a stranger. He let the letter fall softly onto the table. 

Viscardi looked at Quill’s distressed face, and his superior smirk faded. He snatched up the letter from Luna as she peered at it. Her growl was met with his indifference. 

Quill, for his part, was consumed with unpleasant thoughts. The grim face of his mother did little to ease him. He waited for someone to speak, but they were all watching him. He did not know how to react. 

“When was this decided?” Quill asked, feeling helpless. He needed to know how long his father had planned on selling him to the Sovereign. Celestina and Ezra answered simultaneously. 

“Who knows what goes through father’s head,” Ezra muttered darkly. He was oddly talkative, it seemed.

“This is the first time I am hearing of such an arrangement.” His mother was more diplomatic. 

Quill leaned back in his chair, letting his posture slacken. This was distressing news - he was allowed to be improper. Celestina seemed to agree for once, as she did not reprimand him. 

“I have to pack up my stuff and leave?” he asked quietly. “Do I get a say in this at all?”

“The Sovereign has already agreed to the proposal,” his mother responded, tight-lipped. 

“I never agreed, though. Surely something that concerns me so intimately would need my approval. Or I could at least have been made aware of it much earlier.” 

Celestina sighed. Ordinarily, she was the most steadfast of the Lycans. The ideal watcher in the tower. Right now, however, she looked very tired. Quill knew that she had little part in this arrangement, but he was still unhappy all the same. 

“This will end the war,” Celestina said. It seemed like she was trying to convince herself more so than him. “It’s what is best for Eurydice.” 

“But-”

“Enough. Quill, Lorelei, Ezra – go, pack your things for the journey. Your father expects us in Scarwood within the coming days.” 

Viscardi chose to speak at that moment. “Where do I fit in this? Father never mentioned me.” 

“You’re staying here, in Lunares. You will be the Lord of Beowulf Tower in our absence.”

It was Viscardi’s turn to look surprised. “Oh. I’ve never … been alone before. Are you sure?”

Celestina nodded. “I have full faith in you, Viscardi.” She gestured towards the stack of papers she had been focused on when Quill first walked in. “I’ve left instructions for what you should do while we’re away. The stewards will help you.”

Her youngest son nodded, honey eyes uncertain. 

“What about me?” Luna inquired. “I want to come with you.” 

Celestina looked like she was ready to deny Luna’s request. Lorelei intercepted. “Let her come with us, mother. It would do her good. It’s been a while since she’s left Lunares.”

Their mother sighed again before nodding. Luna pumped a triumphant fist into the air. She didn’t seem to fully understand what was happening. 

Celestina turned to Quill, noticing the stormy expression on his face. She rose and stood by his side, cupping his cheeks in her hands like she had done many times in his childhood to comfort him. Her eyes roved over his face. 

“Would that I could keep you here with me,” Celestina said lowly. “Trust me when I say that I want you in the capital about as much as you want to leave. I’d sooner none of us left the Tower. But we are of noble blood. Marriage contracts are arranged, and we fulfill them. This is our duty as Lycans.”

Quill tried protesting one last time. “This isn’t some marriage to a Cairn or Lupine. This is the Sovereign – the royal family. The ones we’ve been fighting all this time.” He hesitated. “I’ll be so far away, mama.” 

Celestina looked heartbroken. “I left my family in Moonstone when I married your father and became the Lady of Beowulf Tower. Now you must leave yours. It is decided, Quill.”

“How much time do I have until we leave?” he asked, defeated. 

“Two days. I can allow for three, but no longer. I’m sorry, Quill. I am not the one deciding these things. It is beyond my power.” 

Quill nodded weakly. Two days. Two days to pack his things, and leave the only home he’d ever known. He broke free of her embrace, mumbled a half-assed request to exit, and walked out of the solar. 

Many fanciful thoughts swirled through his head as he stumbled through the halls of the Tower. Mounting a horse and riding into the sunset; commandeering a ship and sailing towards Prometheus or Sol; even running off to the Frozen Waste to live amongst the fabled permanently-Transformed white wolves. 

He did none of those things. Instead, Quill went to their small library. He’d probably read each of its books at least half a dozen times, but they still brought him great comfort. He reached for a childhood favorite, The Nomad and Her Preachers. It told the story of Dadia Stareyes, one of the greatest Sovereigns in Eurydicean history. 

As a child, he’d been entranced by the peasant-turned-monarch and her two trusted companions. The Grand Seer of her time had declared that someone with ‘stars in their eyes’ would lead the people. He’d rejoiced as Dadia, a commonfolk woman from the then-independent nation of Stepes, triumphed over a court ruled by scheming mages, vampires, and elves in a country that did not know or love her. 

Her adventures had always been his focus. Quill laughed with little humor. He had always wanted to be like Sovereign Dadia, but had found few similarities between them. Now they shared a glaring one - someone else had decided their fate for them. 

_I guess I really am only useful for marriage alliances._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spotlight: Lycan Clan  
>   
> The Lycans are a vassal clan in the Annex, and their seat is Beowulf Tower. They have served the Wolffs for generations, often contributing to the Wolff’s army and infantry. Recently, the Lycans have been gaining favor with other vassals because of Theron Lycan’s levelheadedness and practicality. In fact, many of the werewolf victories during the Insurgency were due to suggestions made by Lord Lycan. Their growing popularity has put them on the Wolff watchlist, which ironically only made them appear more favorable to the other clans.  
> The Lycan words are "Neither Broken Nor Timid". Recent members include:  
> Theron Lycan, the Clan Head and Lord of Beowulf Tower.  
> Celestina Lycan (née Mooncrest), wife of Theron Lycan and Lady of Beowulf Tower.  
> Lorelei Lycan, their eldest child and heir. Recently married to Everett Cairn. She is 24.  
> Ezra Lycan, second child. Betrothed to Blair Lupine. He is 22.  
> Quill Lycan, third child. He is 21.  
> Viscardi Lycan, fourth child. He is 15.  
> Luna Lycan, fifth child. She is 12, soon to be 13.


	6. Roses on the Mountain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of the war isn't welcomed by everyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's what is *technically* chapter 4! Basically, Coven has been vibing throughout the war and their vibe is about to end now that it's over. This one was really fun to write. Lyra is a bitch and I like her so much.

Lyra Livingstone  
Stonerose, 28 War

***

The Covenese red burned as it went down her throat. Lyra cringed internally as she took a sip, making sure to keep her face impassive. 

The dry wine was tart and bitter – it was beyond her why anyone would enjoy it. Though she championed anything that came from her region, Lyra could not bring herself to willingly consume the wine beloved by her people. The only reason she was serving it now was because her more important vassal leaders were gathered in Living Stone. 

Seated before her were the representatives from select vassal clans: Lords Silversong, Argent, and Rochefort, as well as Ladies Clérisseau and Charlemagne. There was a self-important air about the room. Lyra could not wait until they left her castle. 

Her eldest son, Orion Livingstone, occupied the space at her right hand. He too shuddered at the taste of the wine, although his disdain for it was not as subtle as hers. Lyra found small pleasure in the fact that she was not the only one suffering through this meeting. 

She had summoned these lords and ladies to Stonerose to discuss orders she had received from the crown through the Master of Intelligence. Lyra had been hearing interesting tales from the west. There had been whisperings of peace talks between the Annex and the Ironhill. She had ignored such rumors, however, until the Master all but confirmed them. 

The Insurgents wanted reconciliation with the Sovereign in exchange for a royal marriage. He had agreed. Lyra wondered why. She was no stranger to being punished by the crown. Both of her parents had died when she was just a girl, after the Second Mage Uprising during the Gray Era. They had been found guilty of treason, and were executed as an example. Many of their own vassal heads had been sent to the Frostgate Asylum in the Frozen Waste, which Lyra supposed was crueller than a simple death. 

It had not been easy to persuade Damien Caedis not to strip away her family’s lands, keeps, and titles. The Second Uprising did little to endear the Livingstone name to the crown. The Third Mage Uprising that followed a few years later certainly didn’t help, even though Lyra herself had helped Potentate Lilith von Drake quell it. 

_Marriage or not, I hardly imagine that the crown will forget the last twenty-eight years so easily. The soon-to-be Potentate is in for a bit of a shock._ Lyra took a sip from her cup, this time with little reaction. 

Richard Silversong was speaking, likely boasting about his clan’s ships. Of all Lyra’s vassals, he was one of her least favorite leaders. To think that her sons were half Silversong. This man was nothing like his cousin Cesare, her late husband. Lyra would sometimes look for traces of Cesare in Richard, but was left disappointed each time the simpering fool opened his mouth. 

“It is most gracious of you, Lady Livingstone, to welcome us here today,” Silversong said. “Though I would request that you allow the Silversongs to handle this delegation business. It wouldn’t do for Coven’s Governor to be beleaguered by such trivial matters as honor guards for former rebels. Silversong and Livingstone are family, yes? We ought to help one another.” 

Lord Richard Silversong had the audacity to smile at her after his little speech. Lyra wished he would choke on his wine. She took another sip. 

“Your offer is generous, Lord Silversong,” Lyra began, “but the crown did not request travel via sea. Your family’s ships are not needed. Overland shall suffice.” 

“We offer more than just ships. My clan can still be entrusted with this task, sweet sister,” he responded meekly. Lyra was almost impressed. One rejection was usually enough to shut him up. 

“And how do you plan to do that?” asked Lady Joana Clérisseau tartly. “Your clan is known for its ships. Are you going to sail them along the roads? Perhaps have them pulled by horses?”

The portly man looked dejected. He shook his head, taking a mighty drink of wine and muttering something about how fine it was. He was a third-born child, if Lyra remembered correctly. She wondered how this man had risen through the ranks of his family to be the Clan Head. The siblings before him would never know the monumental task they had left her by dying. 

Jason Argent, heir of the Argents of Whitewood, looked eager to voice his opinion. The Argents had been a great family, once. They had rivalled hers during the Rose Era, back when they were both vassals of the Rosemonts and Lyra’s ancestors had been called the Blackstones.

Jason’s mother, the proper Clan Head, had recently fallen ill and was confined to her bed. Her son seemed to be adjusting quite well to his family’s impending tragedy. Lyra motioned for him to speak. She hoped she wouldn’t regret it.

“My lady,” he said, gray eyes alight, “why must we be expected to do the crown’s bidding? Surely the Sovereign has his own people that he can send to Lupus Crossing.” 

Lord Louis Rochefort nodded his approval. “Eurydice may have been at war for an Era, but Coven has enjoyed peace by staying out of such affairs that do not concern us.”

 _And who negotiated the terms of this peace? Certainly not any of you,_ Lyra thought. She swirled her expensive wine around as her subjects twittered around her. _This has not been an easy Era for us either. The taxes imposed on Coven since the war escalated have cost us more than a few lyres and crowns._

She thought of the Impasse Treaty. It was the agreement that allowed Coven to maintain its relatively neutral stance. As long as they did not aid the rebels, Coven would not be considered a threat to the crown. Her region need not fight - in exchange for raised taxes. Lyra was given free reign over Coven’s economy while her people, mages especially, avoided conscription into the Garrison. It had worked out well, so to speak. 

Orion pushed his cup away, and rested his elbows on the table. Lyra had almost forgotten about him. She was surprised he came to the meeting at all. It was unlike him to care about anything that didn’t have a pretty face and a hole he could stick himself into. 

“The Sovereign isn’t asking us to raise our banners and mount an attack,” Orion said, sounding bored. “We’re escorting some people to the capital. It can’t be that hard.” 

Eleanor Charlemagne blinked coquettishly at Orion. Unlike many Covenese noble families, the Charlemagne Clan was rather young and consisted of commonfolk members and hybrids rather than pure mages. That did not stop them from seeking matches with their more magically-inclined neighbors. 

Lady Eleanor was older than Orion by some years. It did little to keep her from leaning over such that her chest was well within his line of sight. Her lacey chemise peeked out cheekily. Lyra felt her left eye twitch, but held her tongue.

“My lord Orion,” Lady Charlemagne said, her high-pitched voice grating on Lyra’s nerves, “you are most correct. I believe we should heed the crown’s summons. It would be an honor for the Charlemagnes to send a delegation complete with our swiftest horses and vehicles if need be. We can host them as well, in Bergellon.”

_I’m sure that is not all you wish to host in Bergellon._

“Your offer is well met,” Orion responded, brown eyes unabashedly watching Eleanor, “but this isn’t a matter of heeding the crown or not. It’s clear that we will. We’re here to discuss who is sending the party, and to lay out the routes that they will take.” He turned towards Lyra with a challenging expression. “Unless I’m mistaken?”

 _Brat,_ Lyra thought. “You are most correct,” she said instead, hoping Lady Charlemagne would see her mockery for what it was. 

“But,” Lord Argent started, “surely returning to such close crown rule will cripple Coven? The war has been one of the best things for us since Rosemont sat the throne. We ought to write back to the Sovereign. Formally request he select a different region for the Inner Circle’s purposes. Perhaps Stepes, or better still letting the Annex sort out its own business.” The impudent whelp stopped to nod at his own brilliance. “The Impasse Treaty should be modified now that the war is supposedly ending, and-” 

Lyra had heard enough from him. “Why, Lord Argent, it appears that my appointment as the Governor of Coven was ill-advised. You are clearly the superior mage. Whitewood isn’t suitable for such a fine post. Would you like Living Stone instead, as befits your station?” 

Argent’s eyes widened, and he began to stutter apologies. Clérisseau, the old bat, looked pleased. Silversong had been steadily going through Lyra’s wine, but even he stopped to gape. He looked like a fish that would be pulled aboard his little clan’s little ships. 

The Lady of Living Stone and Governor of Coven was finished with her subjects. She rose from her seat, and they – save Orion – scrambled to rise with her. Lyra raised her right arm, and the ‘summon’ rune emblazoned on her skin glowed briefly through her expensive fabrics. Not long after, her servants poured into the room.

“Do clean this mess up,” Lyra said to the nearest one. Her servants nodded, and began clearing the table. Argent and Charlemagne looked confused. Rochefort and Clérisseau bore twin masks of frustration, but wisely chose to keep their mouths shut. Just as well. Today had found Lyra lacking in her so-called legendary patience. 

“We are expected to meet the Annexian party at Lupus Crossing in the very near future,” Lyra stated. “I expect the five of you can put your heads together and prepare an envoy suitable for the next Potentate of our great realm. I will be waiting for them here, in Stonerose.”

She made to leave the spacious room, before pausing. Lyra turned to her vassals one last time. “Lord Silversong.” The man jumped in surprise, and looked at her with watery eyes. “Should I hear you call me sister again, I’ll have your precious boats burned.”

Lyra smiled sweetly. “I trust that you all will be ready to vacate Living Stone at dawn. Have a good night, my dear lords and ladies.” 

With that, Lyra continued on her way. She listened to the echoing sounds of her heels with satisfaction. Behind her, Silversong took one last gulp from his cups. 

***

Lyra retreated to the sanctity of her chambers. She sighed, and released her blonde waves from the many pins that held them in place. Once finished, she reached for her ivory comb – a gift from her mother – and began to languidly brush her hair. 

The bottle of white wine resting near her dresser drew her attention. Lyra poured magic into her ‘movement’ rune and directed her intent towards the bottle and a nearby wine glass. They moved towards her obediently, and came to a gentle stop at her side. 

The Briarean white soothed Lyra’s burgeoning headache. She wondered why she even bothered inviting those vassals to Living Stone. A remote conversation via one of the castle’s many specula would have been sufficient. Perhaps even a letter, if she was not inclined to see any of their faces. 

Lyra removed her elegant but formal gown spun from fine Covenese silks. It was a beautiful thing to behold, though it was not meant to be worn for extensive periods. She set it aside for one of her servants to take care of and instead donned a soft, more informal velvet dress in the Livingstone colors of purple and black. 

A timid knock shattered Lyra’s fragile peace. She flung her doors open from where she sat using her ‘movement’ rune. The curtains in her chambers fluttered. 

_“What?”_ Lyra deadpanned, annoyed. Lorenzo, one of her servants, squeaked in surprise at her sudden appearance. He bowed quickly and cast his eyes downward. 

“My lady,” he said, voice shaky, “your son would like an audience with you.” 

_What does Corvus want?_ Lyra wondered. She nodded and waved her hand in acquiescence. To her surprise, Orion was the one to stroll through her doors. It was rare for him to seek her out while she was in her chambers. Lorenzo quickly took his leave, shutting the doors behind him. 

“Lady Livingstone, only the cruellest of people serves red wine while they have casks of Briar’s finest in their cellar,” Orion tutted at her. He procured his own cup and helped himself to Lyra’s bottle as he spoke.

She glared at him over the rim of her glass. “It would not do for a Governor to favor the products of their rival region. Besides, you should be grateful for that Covenese red. It was from one of my pricier batches.” 

“Sometimes, things that are expensive, are worse.” 

Perhaps the wine had loosened Lyra’s tongue. She actually found herself in the mood for conversation. Lyra seated herself in the chaise underneath the window overlooking Stonerose. She beckoned towards her son and watched as he took the seat across from her. 

“The Annex is surrendering and re-joining Eurydice,” Lyra said, watching the late-night ships arriving in the port. “Maybe now I can stop paying these fucking taxes. Coven could only finance the crown’s war for so long.” 

Orion made himself comfortable in her loveseat. “How _have_ we been paying such lofty taxes?” 

“We have many deals in place with the Tridents for the benefit of both of our regions. You’d know this if you weren’t so busy whoring across the entire south.” 

“Entire may be a bit of an exaggeration. I’d say half the south. And a bit of the east.” Her eldest son laughed, ruffling his deep black locks. He looked so much like his father when he smiled. 

Lyra refilled her glass, and looked for a distraction. A rune that she couldn’t quite place was printed on Orion’s left wrist. She took his hand and examined it closely.

“Is this a new rune?” she inquired. She wouldn’t be surprised. Although Orion dressed modestly around her, she knew that his body was covered with various runes. Her own arms bore general and special runes alike - the marks of her adventurous youth before her parents had found themselves on the wrong side of the Sovereign. 

Orion snatched his hand away. “No.” 

“Oh, please. I wasn’t born yesterday. That was some special rune, wasn’t it? Probably a forbidden one, too.” 

He didn’t respond. Lyra sniffed in irritation, and returned to their prior topic. 

“In either case, it would be good to strengthen our ties with the Seas. It’s about time you were wed, or at least betrothed. Tiberia Trident has a son. He should be around your age, or perhaps a bit younger.”

“I thought we had deals in place with them already,” Orion muttered. Lyra ignored his sass. 

“A marriage between the Livingstones and the Tridents would be quite prosperous. The Seas can offer greater passage for merchants, and the trading ports along coastal Coven will ground them. It helps that the Gold Road begins in our region.”

Orion smirked at her. “Come now, you’re better than that,” he drawled. “Marrying an heir to an heir? The Tridents only have one child – they wouldn’t send him away to Stonerose. And I know you won’t give up your firstborn, either. You need your precious heir.”

 _Of all the times you choose to think politically,_ Lyra thought. 

Orion was right, however. Eurydicean noble marriages were power plays; tools to secure alliances and strengthen clans. The chosen overarching family name could have huge implications for the more powerful clans. A noble could stand to gain or lose titles and claims depending on the direction of marriage. 

Tiberia and Ariel Trident, the Spear Queens of the Siren Seas, had only one child. They would not send him to Stonerose to join the Livingstones, as it would leave them without an heir. Instead, Lyra would have to send away one of her children if she had any hopes of securing a closer alliance with the reclusive Seas. 

“I have two sons, do I not?” Lyra said, downing her wine. 

Orion narrowed his eyes. “Sending Corvus to Coldcliff?” he said. “That’s cruel.”

“How so?” she responded. “He’d become a Trident. Whoever bears that name is royalty, at least in the eyes of the Siren Seas. The Spear Prince is hardly an undesirable match.” 

“Ignoring the minor fact that he’s terrified of water. Brilliant. Send him to the one place where water is inescapable.”

Lyra rolled her green eyes. “What a ridiculous notion. Corvus has no reason to fear water.” 

Orion’s brown eyes, so different from hers, darkened. “Perhaps the fact that our father drowned in the Southern Sea has something to do with it.”

Lyra paused. She had not expected to be reminded of her husband’s foolish naval expeditions across Eurydice. The Governor schooled her face into its customary neutral mask. 

“Ironic that a Silversong should drown, given their seafaring history,” she said coldly. 

Orion looked enraged. He was never quite good at concealing his emotions. Lyra assumed that he would storm out of the room in a childish tantrum, yet he remained seated. A good ten minutes passed before he next spoke. 

“Who was that woman from earlier?” Orion asked. “The one with the other vassals.” 

_No one that concerns you._ “Joana Clérisseau,” Lyra said with a straight face. She did not like where their conversation was going. 

“Not her. The other one, with the big, ah-” Orion gestured vaguely “-freckles.”

Lyra gave him an unimpressed look. “The big freckles.” She shook her head. “That was Eleanor Charlemagne. Her clan is nothing but glorified gentry. They could have been prosperous farmers in Stepes, but they instead came to Coven chasing roses. They even deigned to put a rose on their coat-of-arms.” 

Orion looked thoughtful. “Charlemagne,” he mumbled, “That sounds vaguely familiar. They have the … green rose sigil? Or the orange one?” 

Lyra shrugged. “There are too many roses in Coven. Roses in the forests, roses in the fields, even roses on the ships. I suppose that makes us the roses on the mountain.” She glanced out at Stonerose once more from Living Stone’s high perch. 

“The Living Stone Rock is hardly a mountain. It’s more of a really big rock,” Orion responded. The pink flush to his cheeks showed his intoxication. Lyra wasn’t feeling so sharp herself. 

“Congratulations,” she stated dryly, “you’ve described what a mountain is.” This interaction was growing tedious. “What do you want, Orion? I’m a busy woman.” 

He looked taken aback briefly, before his expression sobered. Orion put down his half-empty cup of wine. This night was just full of surprises, it seemed. 

“Why do you allow such talk to continue?” her son asked quietly.

Lyra’s patience was running thin. “What talk, pray tell?”

“Between your vassals. They speak of denying the crown’s summons; of acting for their own interests. Jacob Argent or whoever even praised Rosemont – the Tyrant! And you just let them continue with it.” 

“Ah, so that is why you’re here”, Lyra retorted. “Another person come to tell me how to govern the region that is mine by right.”

“So casual talks of treason are allowed?” Orion countered hotly. “I’m sorry, weren’t your parents executed for treason?” 

Lyra had had enough of her son. “Did you come here to speak of dead people and intricate plots? Or do you have one last thing to stay before you take your leave?” she asked icily. 

There was a frosty silence before Orion responded. “I had a request,” he said, not heeding her dismissal. 

“What could you possibly want this time?” Lyra was at the end of her patience. 

“To join the delegation going to Lupus Crossing. I want to meet this new Potentate. And besides,” Orion rose and looked out of the window, “Stonerose is boring. I doubt your heart would be broken if I was gone for some days.” 

Lyra exhaled. “Stay, or go. It matters little to me.” 

Orion grinned, and finally left her chambers. Even from behind, he resembled Cesare. Lyra poured herself another glass of wine. This time, it did little to ease her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spotlight: Livingstone Clan  
>   
> Sitting atop the Living Stone Rock in Stonerose, the Livingstones are one of the wealthiest families in Eurydice. They took control of the Living Stone, then called Rosewood Vineyard, from the Rosemonts at the end of the Tyrant’s reign. Their seat is the Living Stone, named after the huge Philosopher’s Stone it sits upon. While always a well-off family, the Livingstones were able to stuff their coffers by selling small fragments of the Rock at high prices. They are the Great Clan in Coven, and often dedicate resources to the advancement of the mage agenda. The current Head, Lyra Livingstone, has a knack for getting mages out of trouble with minimal repercussions. Lyra’s tendency to remain neutral allowed her to both suggest the Impasse Treaty and have it granted, keeping Coven out of the war. Their secondary keep is Black Hall.  
> Their words are "Glory, Victory, Pride." Recent members include:  
> {Andromeda Livingstone}, former Governor of Coven and Lady of Living Stone. Executed.  
> {Sirius Livingstone}, former Lord of Living Stone. Executed.  
> Lyra Livingstone, Lady of Living Stone and Governor of Coven. Daughter of Andromeda and Sirius. She is the Clan Head.  
> {Cesare Livingstone (née Silversong)}, husband of Lyra Livingstone and Lord of Living Stone. He went missing on a voyage across the Southern Sea.  
> Orion Livingstone, eldest child of Lyra and Cesare and heir of Living Stone. He is 21.  
> Corvus Livingstone, second child. He is 14.


	7. My Word Is Final

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theron spends time with his third child.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel bad for Quill. He's _technically_ the main character and yet it's been hard to give him a full chapter of his own. He'll get one eventually!  
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter.

Theron Lycan  
Westedge, 28 War

***

The solar meant for the Clan Head was comfortable and spacious. The twin hearths burned cheerfully, giving the room a pleasant warmth and filling it with the quiet crackle of firewood. Theron did not have regrets about claiming their former Governor’s chambers for himself. 

It was just as well, he thought. The weather had begun to turn since he had taken Scarwood Hold. Every now and then, he would wake to see small dustings of snow across the land. It always snowed in the Annex before it did the other regions, and the cold remained far longer. There was time for perhaps one more harvest before winter would take their crops. 

Theron had been busy in the last few weeks. The war had lasted long enough that many of his people had not lived in a world without fighting. Preparing the Annex for peace, a new Great Clan, and the changing of the seasons had taken much of his time. 

The sun’s rays peeked in through the curtains as it rose. It was time for Theron to rise, too. He swiftly prepared himself for what promised to be a busy day. By his calculations, Celestina and their children would be arriving towards evenfall. His wife’s response to his summons had been unusually curt. He suspected that she was cross with him. A small matter. 

Theron exited the quiet of the room, and was greeted with the sounds of the Hold. Despite the early hour, there was much activity as everyone prepared for the arrival of the other Lycans. His family wouldn’t have long to settle before they would ride out to Lupus Crossing. The sooner Quill was in the Ironhill and wed to the Sovereign, the sooner the Annex’s position in Eurydice would be solidified. 

Lord Mooncrest and Lady Cairn were already awake and giving orders to their people. Theron wasn’t surprised. Like him, they were older and already quite seasoned. Lady Lupine, the youngest of their quartet, would likely not rise for another hour. 

The Governor approached Mooncrest and Cairn, nodding to them as he did so. Anoki Mooncrest and Morgana Cairn finished their conversation with a fair-skinned Tikaani lordling.

“I trust the morning is well,” Morgana said. “Have you broken your fast?”

“I’ll eat later. There is much to do,” Theron shrugged. It was a behavior he’d regretfully picked up from Viscardi and Luna. 

Mooncrest chuckled. “Young werewolves nowadays have no regard for themselves. How do you propose to lead our region on an empty stomach?” 

Theron regarded his father-in-law coolly. “I’m not that young. Your daughter is younger than I am.” 

“Aye, but only by a year or two.” Lord Mooncrest turned away as his attention was drawn by one of his clan’s infantrymen. 

Theron observed the goings-on about the great hall. Scarwood Hold was a huge keep, bigger than the Tower. It was a behemoth of a stronghold, designed to withstand sieges. It would take an army a very long time to break through its extensive defenses. It, however, was not built to counter enemies that were already familiar with its layout. Theron doubted his attack would have succeeded had his forces not already been within the Hold’s walls.

He would do well to enact many changes in its appearance. Replacing the Wolff banners with his own family’s crest was a start. Theron felt satisfied every time he saw the blues and silvers of his clan sitting where the gray and black of the Wolffs once did. 

Westedge too resembled Lupus Crossing - its twin across the Lesser Sea - more so than it did Lunares. Or at least, that was the case before the last ten years of the war. Their former leader’s erratic behavior had weakened one of the Annex’s most important cities. Restoring it would not be easy, but Theron supposed it now his duty as the Governor.

His thoughts reminded him of the current thorn in his side. Although the Annex had rallied behind him, not every clan supported the change in leadership. Some, particularly clans that had been allied to them since the days of the old kingdom, were still staunch supporters of the Wolffs. 

Theron would need to resolve this issue before it fractured his region. He knew the consequences of a liege hated by their vassals all too well. The black tower of the Lycans flew in Scarwood for this very reason. Theron was glad to have chosen his inner circle from clans with close ties to his. Should he fall, so would they. It was good incentive to support him. 

Though Theron could use force to exterminate his enemies, a less aggressive approach would be practical. Celestina and Lorelei – even Ezra – were quite skilled in diplomacy. He trusted them to parley on the Lycans’ behalf once they arrived in Westedge. 

That left the issue of the Wolffs themselves. After the commotion of the takeover, Theron had sent the family down to their own dungeons while he considered their fate. Gifting them to the crown would be a show of good faith, but Theron wasn’t quite ready to give up such a valuable hand. 

“Have the kitchenhands send a meal to the office overlooking the yard. I’ll be dining with a guest,” Theron stated to a passing servant. 

He did not wait for their response. Instead, Theron left the hall and descended the stairs of the great castle. He had business in the dungeons. 

The underside of the Hold was much colder than the top. Although the upper levels were powered by electricity, the dungeons still relied on torches. Theron suspected that it was for dramatic effect: to strike fear into captured enemies. 

Said captured enemies soon appeared as Theron walked deeper into the Hold. The family had been separated into individual cells. Silas himself was the most dangerous prisoner, and was kept on a much lower level. The full moon was soon approaching. Theron made a note to station more guards on him. He glanced at the other Wolffs as they sat in their prisons. 

Julius Wolff, that worm of a man, was shaking. The vassals had tolerated Silas Wolff’s warmongering for years, as nearly all of them loathed the idea of serving Julius after his father. Silas was a cruel and bloodthirsty man that would sooner have the Annex burn than broker peace with the crown, but at least he was decisive. Julius, his heir, was an absolute coward.

 _He was likely hiding underneath his bed when we took the keep, hoping that everything would go away,_ Theron thought derisively. He had not been surprised when the man was absent during Silas’ meeting that day. _Gods forbid Julius interact with the people he was meant to lead._

Dionysia Wolff emerged next. She had always been a stranger to him. The daughter of a commonfolk merchant from Amaterasu and a werewolf from Lupus Crossing, Dionysia had never shown love for her adopted people. Her marriage to Julius had been a tool to gain access to her foreign family’s wealth. Dionysia eyed him as he passed, aloof. She posed little threat – half-werewolves could not Shift or fully transform.

Their second child, Archie, was still quite the firecracker. He bared his teeth and growled. The two youngest Wolffs, Elias and Cornelia, were more subdued. Theron ignored them. Only one Wolff was of great interest to him. 

The eldest grandchild, Sakura Wolff. He came to a stop outside of her cell.

Sakura looked at him warily, amber eyes watery and afraid. Many years ago, Theron had proposed a marriage between her and Quill. Her grandfather had fiercely rejected. The crown’s acceptance of his son soothed Theron’s bitterness somewhat. 

Sakura’s curly brown hair had lost much of its shine during her confinement underground. Theron beckoned to Cinder, one of the guards in the service of the Lycans. She migrated to his side from her post. 

“Release Lady Sakura,” he said. “I trust that she will be of no trouble.” 

Cinder nodded and did as she was bid. Sakura glanced between them nervously. Her family watched Theron with a mixture of confusion and apprehension. 

“Have her cleaned and sent to my office,” Theron murmured to the guard. Cinder nodded once more. With that, Theron turned and left the darkened cells. 

\---

The food had arrived by the time Theron made his way to the Hold’s private study. Theron sat and began reading through his reports. Not long after, Sakura Wolff was ushered in by Cassandra Lupine. Lady Lupine looked curious, but was tactful enough to not ask questions. 

“Sit,” Theron said to Sakura, motioning towards an empty seat across from him. “Eat.”

The girl hesitated as Lupine took her leave. Her hair was washed, and her tatters had been exchanged for a simple blue dress. Theron resisted rolling his eyes, another trait he had adopted from his children. 

“I don’t enjoy repeating myself,” he stated bluntly. Sakura sat, and took a hesitant bite.

Theron gave an approving look before he continued with his earlier task. They sat in silence like this – Theron reading and occasionally writing, and Sakura taking small bites of food. 

“You wore flowers in your hair when you were younger. Why?” Theron abruptly asked, placidly eying an analysis of the Annex’s resources.

“My mother named me after a flower from Amaterasu,” Sakura responded shyly, “and because Potentate Selene wore flowers in hers as well. I heard she was very beautiful.” 

Theron hummed. “She was.” 

Theron had once crossed paths with Selene Caedis on a battlefield many years ago, during Sovereign Damien’s rule. He would eventually come to understand why she, the Viper, and the Sylph heir had been called the Demons of the East. 

While the Sovereign and his Suzerain favoured ranged warfare, the Potentate excelled in direct combat. Armed with twin steel rapiers and speed unusual even for vampires, Selene had been a true warrior. Her dark skin, silver hair, and triumphant smirk were often the last things the Insurgents saw as she cut through their ranks. 

News of her death had been surprising, especially since she had been in the Annex. Soon after, the Insurgents suffered crippling defeats across their territories in Stepes. Theron didn’t doubt that the Viper’s newfound recklessness had been motivated by her loss. 

However, he did not bring Sakura here to discuss their former Potentate. It mattered little, in any case. Quill would soon fill the opening she had left. He had other plans. Having a Wolff on his side – one whose loyalties lay objectively with his family - would quieten his dissenters and strengthen Theron’s claim over the Annex.

“Your grandfather is no longer the Governor of the Annex,” Theron said to her. “He will be branded a traitor to the Kingdom of Eurydice, as will your father and your mother. I am sure, Lady Sakura, that you are intelligent enough to know that there is no guarantee of their lives.” 

Sakura’s amber eyes were downcast, but she did not look surprised. She uttered a quiet ‘yes’.

“I am the new Governor,” Theron continued, “but I am not as cruel as your grandfather. You will not be punished for the actions of your elders. Be that as it may, it does not mean that I will let you run free.

“Starting today, you will be a ward of the Lycans. _My ward._ Your family’s lands, keeps, and titles will go to me. Should you behave yourself and prove loyal to your new lieges,” Theron gave her a sharp look “you may, in time, be rewarded. Do you understand?” 

Sakura nodded. “What about my brothers and my sister, my lord?” she inquired softly.

“Your commitment to them is admirable,” Theron responded dryly, “but I would worry about yourself first. Their continued existence depends on your actions.”

Their pleasant conversation was interrupted by Rhys, a former chamberlain of the Wolffs. He’d served as one of Theron’s insiders, allowing his forces into the Hold and guiding them through the underground passages. 

“My lord,” the commonfolk man said, bowing, “the Lycan party has arrived. Lady Celestina is requesting an audience.” 

Theron allowed a small smile to grace his face. “Excellent. Send her here, along with my children. Have someone take these dishes back to the kitchens.” 

Rhys bowed again. Theron called him back before he left. 

“Prepare a room for Lady Sakura. She will be an honoured guest in my keep,” Theron said. 

Rhys nodded, escorting the young lady out of the office. Theron returned to his reports, and awaited his family.

***  
Quill Lycan  
Westedge, 28 War  
*** 

It had been years since Quill was last in Westedge, but Scarwood Hold was as still as large and impressive as he remembered. The place was crawling with people bearing the colors and sigils of various clans. He saw more than a few with black towers running around. 

_The Lycan banners are new,_ Quill thought, looking around the great hall. It seemed that his father was making himself quite comfortable in the Hold. 

Celestina had gone to speak with Anoki Mooncrest. The large man seemed pleased to see his daughter and grandchildren. Everett Cairn stood to the side with his mother, Morgana Cairn. Quill was sure Lorelei would enjoy spending time with her husband. He absently wondered if Blair Lupine, Ezra’s betrothed, was at the Hold. 

His musings were interrupted when a commonfolk man introducing himself as Rhys bowed before them. Quill wasn’t sure why, but he found Rhys incredibly slimy.

“The Governor is prepared to receive guests,” Rhys said. It took Quill a moment to realize that he was referring to Theron, not Silas. 

The Lycans followed the chamberlain towards the upper levels of the Hold. Quill spotted a half-forgotten face from the corner of his eye. _Was that Sakura Wolff?_ he wondered. He didn’t have time to ponder the person’s identity, as they arrived outside of a closed room. 

Celestina entered first. Theron sat at a table underneath a large window. Quill could see the sprawling landscape surrounding the Hold. The lights of the main city blurred the stars. 

“I trust your journey was pleasant,” Theron said, looking up from a stack of papers. His brows furrowed when he spotted Luna, but he did not voice his thoughts. 

Celestina walked towards her husbands, her movements prim and precise. “It would have been sweeter, had I been given due notice. Your summons was abrupt.” 

“My apologies. It was a time-sensitive matter.” Quill wasn’t sure if Theron was sorry or not. He was never very good at reading his father. Or doing anything with him, really. 

Celestina made herself comfortable on a nearby seat. Luna seemed excited by the change in scenery. Quill wished he had her childlike obliviousness. 

“I see you’ve redecorated,” Lorelei remarked. Her tone was friendly, but her eyes were sharp. Theron nodded. 

Ever the practical man, Quill’s father soon addressed the elephant in the room. 

“I assume your mother briefed you on what will happen within the coming months,” Theron started, gazing dubiously at Luna. “We are at a ceasefire. After a rendezvous with the Suzerain and the Master of Defense, the war will officially end. Quill’s marriage to the Sovereign will be the culmination of the peace.” 

“Send me instead. Dissolve my engagement to Blair, or have Quill wed her in my stead. Don’t send him to the snake’s pit in the capital,” Ezra suddenly pleaded. Quill felt a surge of affection towards his brother. 

“Slight the Lupines and the crown in one move? No. My word is final. The terms have already been agreed upon,” Theron countered. Quill could’ve sworn his father rolled his eyes. 

“Was there no other way?” Celestina asked. Her golden eyes looked distant. 

“There were others, yes,” Theron replied. “This was the most favourable for our family. Celestina,” she looked up at her name, “you will accompany Lorelei, Quill, and I to the border. Ezra will hold Scarwood in the meantime. You and Lorelei will then ride back for Westedge. The Annex is yours in my absence. I’ve requested your father stay a while longer. I’m sure you will be pleased.” 

Celestina inclined her head to show her understanding. She didn’t look very pleased, even with the prospect of spending time with her father after many years away from Moonstone. 

Theron turned to Quill. “We will be met by Lady Livingstone’s envoy near Lupus Crossing. They will accompany us – and select Lycan soldiers - to the Ironhill.” He paused. “Luna, too.” 

Luna looked ecstatic. Theron motioned towards the door of the study. 

“The journey is long from the Tower to the Hold,” he said. “I’ve instructed Rhys to have you fed and directed to your chambers once you are ready to rest. You may leave.” 

Quill couldn’t wait to be alone. Being on the road had offered little privacy. He wondered if- 

“Not you, Quill. I need to speak with you in private.” 

Celestina rose. She looked at Theron with narrowed eyes. "We'll talk later." 

"Naturally." 

The rest of the Lycans marched out while Quill took up his former perch. Lorelei’s gaze lingered on them, before she followed her family out. The remaining Lycans waited until the sounds of Luna’s excited chatter had died down. 

Quill had never known Theron very well. His father was always too busy attending to the Wolffs and their war. Whenever his father would return to the Tower, he only had eyes for his first and second heirs.

“I thought I saw Sakura Wolff earlier. Why wasn’t she with the rest of her family?” Quill asked, hoping to delay the impending conversation. 

“She is my ward,” Theron divulged. “Though Julius is Silas’ heir, he’s worthless in the eyes of the Annex. Sakura is the future of her clan. And now her future is in my hands.” 

Quill frowned. “You decide everyone’s fates so readily. Do lives really mean that little to you?”

Theron’s eyes narrowed. “Watch yourself, Quill. I have given you a throne. How many fathers can say the same? This is a far better match than any you could have hoped for.”

 _I was hoping for none._ Quill knew he should stop, that he was overstepping. But he was tired, and the journey had been long and cold with winter fast approaching. He had limited time with his mother and siblings – he wasn’t sure when he would see Viscardi again. The capital was so far away. He didn’t even know if he would ever be able to come home. 

“I didn’t ask for a throne,” Quill said lowly. He crossed his arms defensively. 

“I wasn’t aware that I needed your permission.” Theron was calm, but Quill could hear the veiled threat in his voice. 

The new Governor stood, and looked out towards the city. Quill watched him warily. 

“We are at a ceasefire with the crown,” Theron echoed his earlier words. “You will go to the capital, and you will do your duty. Failure would result in the shattering of the fragile peace I’ve spent years working towards.” A stormy look came over his face. “Wolff was too foolish to see that we would not win this war. I will not have the doom of the Annex be on Lycan heads. Do you understand?”

“But-”

“Do. You. Understand.” Theron’s eyes glowed dangerously. He didn’t like repeating himself, Quill remembered. The younger Lycan ignored the roil of emotions in him. 

“Yes, father.”

“Good.” Theron moved from the window and came to a stop in front of his son. 

Quill felt like a deer being sized up by a particularly hungry wolf. It took a lot of effort to keep his face neutral. He repeatedly Shifted his nails, an act he had seen his mother do many times. It was oddly comforting. 

“You may be my greatest achievement – a Lycan on the Red Throne,” Theron continued. “Cry, glare, complain. Curse my name if it makes this pill less bitter. But you will wed the Sovereign and you will do your part in maintaining our alliance with the crown.”

Theron made eye contact with him. Quill wanted to look away, but he held his father’s gaze. 

“You will do _whatever_ the Viper demands of you.”

“Yes, father.” The words stuck in his throat. 

“As expected. Go, now. We leave for Lupus Crossing in a day’s time.” 

Quill nodded, and left the office as quickly as he could without seeming rude. His father’s words still echoed in his mind. Whatever the Viper demands. _Whatever the Viper demands. Whatevertheviperdemands._

Quill would be alone in the Ironhill. His father would be with him for a time, but he would soon leave to govern the region that he conquered. Titles aside, Quill would be nothing more than a former rebel in a city filled with serpents and thorns. 

What would the Viper demand? 

His vision blurred as he walked through the hallway leading towards the great hall. Quill suddenly felt like that little boy in a castle that felt endless. The one always desperate for his father’s attention and affection. The boy who loved his older siblings, but found that the shadows they cast were unbearably large. 

_So, this is what your attention feels like. It burns._ Now that he stood in the light, Quill missed the safety of the shadows. 

The towers emblazoned on the Lycan banners watched him impassively.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spotlight: Currency  
> Eurydicean currency features both metal coins and paper bills. Money from different regions will often vary in appearance, but the value is the same. The face of the money is its worth, and the back is where it originated from. Paper bills are called crowns; metal coins are called lyres.  
> A crown is worth 100 lyres. The paper crown values are 1, 5, 10, 50, and 100. The fronts are:  
> 1: A Pegasus.  
> 5: A sphinx.  
> 10: A gryphon.  
> 25: A phoenix.  
> 50: A wyvern.  
> 100: A crown by itself or paired with a popular historical figure, such as Sovereigns Dadia Stareyes and Celeste Caedis, Potentate Cyrus Goldenbriar, or Grand Seers Jenny I and Rodrigo I.
> 
> The face of the metal coin is its numerical value. The numbers are 1, 5, 10, 25, and 50. 
> 
> The tails for both lyres and crowns are:  
> Sanguis: A snake and a dragon wrapped around each other.  
> Briar: A winding briar thicket, with many flowers growing around it  
> Coven: Surprisingly, not a rose. It is the alchemical symbol for a Philosopher’s Stone.  
> Stepes: A bear.  
> Annex: A wolf.  
> Seas: A nautilus shell.  
> Ancient: A lyre.


	8. One Nation, Unified

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hyperion goes sightseeing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not even gonna pretend that Hyperion wasn’t inspired by Draco Malfoy, my favorite HP character. This one was almost as fun to write as Lyra's chapter. I have a thing for bitchy blonde characters, it seems. In-game Hyperion is so dramatic. I love him.  
> Hope y'all like the chapter! I'm really excited to write the next one.

Hyperion Tydus  
Lupus Crossing, 28 War

***

The sun sat low in the sky, but Hyperion paid it no mind. His clothes were lined with sunshade; the scattered rays posed little threat to his skin. Beside him, Arion Sylph sat atop an impressive stallion. Though the Suzerain wore an easy smile, his muscles were taut underneath his Briarean overcoat. 

The weather had changed from pleasant to mildly cold as they went farther from the capital. Hyperion was glad for his thick cloak. Vampires’ lower body temperatures were quite unfortunate in winter.

Arion Sylph set quite a brisk pace through Stepes. They had passed through scattered towns and villages on their way from Homestead. Sylph had left most of their vehicles in Dadia’s Rest, opting to navigate the rest of their journey on horseback. General Rowena Lazarus and a skilled unit of the Garrison were stationed behind them, alert for any signs of trouble. 

“So, this is the Annex,” Arion said quietly, gazing at their surroundings. “We haven’t had access to the lands west of Homestead in decades.” 

Lupus Crossing served as the entrance to the Annex proper. It loomed before them, walls rising higher than temple spires. Centuries ago, those walls were built to keep the werewolves docile. Now they stood as a reminder of the crown’s failure to subdue its errant region. Hyperion narrowed his eyes at the red and black Insurgent banner that still flew on the wall. 

The crown’s representatives had arrived first. None valued time as much as Hyperion did, it seemed. He would expect no less from these people. The Sovereign’s acceptance of some rebel lord’s audacious proposition meant that he was now running short of it. 

Hyperion eyed his companion. “There are Insurgents on the walls while we’re in the open. This could very well be a trap.” 

“It’d make for an impressive one, if Reyna’s creepy spy network knew nothing of it.” Their vulnerable position didn’t seem much of a concern to the elf. Hyperion supposed that shots from above were of little threat when armed with elemental air magic.

“There were better marriage prospects in Sanguis,” Hyperion muttered. 

“A Potentate from Sanguis wouldn’t have won the war,” Sylph responded, glancing at Hyperion from the corner of his eyes. 

Whatever retort Hyperion was mustering died as they heard a loud groaning. The soil shifted underneath them as Sylph readied his earth magic. Hyperion’s hand rested gently on his flare gun. One wrong move, and he would have the Garrison raining down on the werewolves. 

The great wooden gates parted loudly, and four riders bearing Lycan banners marched from within the city. A proud man, face lined with age, led the small progression. He raised a hand – Hyperion stiffened – and the gates were sealed. 

The man approached them slowly. He was flanked by three people: two women, and a man. Hyperion wondered which one of them would be the thorn injected into his side. 

“Lord Theron Lycan, I presume?” Sylph said, breaking the tense silence. The Suzerain had ridden ahead to meet the newcomer. Hyperion followed closely. He had no intention of being cast to the wayside. 

Theron Lycan nodded. “You are correct. This is my wife Celestina Lycan, the Lady of Beowulf Tower. Lorelei Lycan, heir to Beowulf Tower. And Quill Lycan, our future Potentate.” 

Each person respectfully dipped their head when they were introduced. Hyperion detected a quiet challenge in Theron’s voice when he spoke of his son. 

“I am Lord Arion Sylph,” the elf said, “and this is Hyperion Tydus, the Lord of Dragonfyre Keep and Master of Defense.” 

Theron smiled thinly. “I trust that you will forgive the delay, my lords. Traversing the Adamantine Trail grows difficult, what with winter bearing down on us.” 

“Only if you’ll forgive His Majesty’s absence in return,” Sylph responded. 

Hyperion watched the Lycans with a carefully guarded expression as the two of them conversed. He looked down towards the other male Lycan from where he sat. 

_So, you are Quill Lycan. The one who is to be the symbol of peace._

The younger Lycan sat sullenly on his horse, eyes like pale suns. From this distance, Hyperion could see streaks of brown in his black hair. He had the same olive skin as his clan members. The small pout on his lips seemed out of place on one that was to be the other hand of the Red Throne. 

Quill Lycan noticed Hyperion studying him, and raised his brows questioningly. Hyperion scowled in response. 

“News of the Sack of Scarwood Hold has been spreading across the kingdom,” Sylph soon said, adopting a more serious air. 

“Is that what they’re calling it now?” Theron asked. He sounded almost amused. Hyperion narrowly avoided glaring daggers at the man.

The Suzerain nodded. “You kept your word in expelling the Wolff pretenders. I am therefore extending a hand in peace towards your people. Swear fealty to the Red Throne, and the Annex shall be given its rightful place in the realm.” 

Theron Lycan gave them both a considering look. Hyperion ghosted a hand over the hidden firearm. He hoped Lycan would give him a reason to use it. 

Instead, the man slowly dipped his head. He dismounted from his horse, and walked towards Sylph’s stallion.

“It is customary to swear fealty before the throne,” Theron said, “but I suppose the gates of Lupus Crossing shall suffice.” 

Arion too dismounted. “Such are the times we live in. It’s poetic – one nation, unified at the crossing. Shall we begin?”

Lord Lycan unsheathed his sword, and embedded the blade in the earth. He knelt before the Suzerain, and his clan members did the same. Even on bent knee, he exuded pride. His arrogance left Hyperion with little doubts that Theron had usurped his lieges. 

“Who here swears allegiance before the crown?” Sylph asked, commencing the ceremony.

“I, Theron Lycan, Head of the Lycan Clan, Lord of Beowulf Tower, and Governor of the Annex, swear loyalty to the Red Throne and the ones who sit upon it.” 

“As the Governor, you are tasked with exerting the crown’s will over your region. Will you recall your troops, lower your banners, and set aside all claims against the throne?” 

“I swear it.”

Sylph nodded solemnly. “By the authority of Ayden Caedis I, Sovereign Ruler of the Kingdom of Eurydice, Head of the Caedis Clan and Governor of Sanguis, and as Eurydicean customs decree, I, Arion Sylph, Suzerain of the Kingdom of Eurydice and heir to Briarlight, hereby declare the end of the rebellion known as the Werewolf Insurgency.” 

_Titles upon titles. Half of them say the same damn thing,_ Hyperion thought. He was anxious to return to the Ironhill. Allied or not, the werewolves still outnumbered them. Hyperion was not the late Potentate – he had no plans to die in the thrice-damned Annex while chasing notions of a unified realm.

The Lycans rose, faces differing levels of unreadability. Hyperion signaled for General Lazarus to approach with the Garrison. To ensure the peace remained after he and the Suzerain left, he intended to station the crown’s forces throughout Lupus Crossing. Lord Lycan would not protest if he wished for this alliance to continue. 

The Governor, for his part, did not give Hyperion the satisfaction of appearing perturbed. He nodded briskly towards the wall. The large gates once again opened, and this time they remained unsealed. Theron Lycan turned, and began to lead the Garrison into the city.

 _You were an enemy to the crown mere moments ago, yet you deign to lead_ my _army?_ Hyperion bristled. He pushed his horse ahead of Theron’s, ensuring that he was the first to ride into the formerly inaccessible region. 

\---  
_Homestead_  
\---

Fireworks exploded in a mix of blues, whites, and greens. Loud shouts and cheers could be heard across the crowded city. Beer and ale flowed freely, feasts were laid out, and raucous music thundered as the people raced to celebrate. At this rate, news of the war’s end would spread to the deepest corners of Eurydice within a fortnight. 

Hyperion sat in the great hall of Dadia’s Rest, doing his level best to tune out the festivities around him. The lively, upbeat songs from the reedy singers grated on Hyperion’s nerves. Pipes and horns sounded to the loud rhythms of their drums. 

Lord Ramsay Skyreach sat at the head of the table. His tightly coiled hair bounced as he laughed merrily. At twenty-seven, he was the youngest of the six Governors. Beside him was his wife, Lady Melissa Skyreach. Hyperion didn’t miss the sharpness of her canines and the faint gold in her brown eyes. They were clear tells that she was a commonfolk-werewolf hybrid. 

Many of the Skyreach household guards dined at the table bearing their lord and lady. Hyperion was aghast. They were of low birth – it was unbecoming for them to be seated with the highborn. Stepes had always been laxer with its nobility than its sister regions. 

“I have held little love for the Wolffs,” Lord Skyreach boomed, tankard of ale in hand, “since the day their forces plundered my region and put my father and brothers to the sword. It is justice that their doom should be through their own dogs.”

There was a resounding hoot from his people. Many stomped their feet in support.

“History was made during the Liberation,” Skyreach continued, “and now it shall be made again. The invaders have retreated, and soon Stepes will be rid of them. Caedis brought the Insurgents to heel, and now Eurydice looks forward. Long may the Viper reign!” 

“Long may he reign!” echoed the people. Sylph in particular seemed fond of that notion. Hyperion sipped the ale to excuse his silence. 

“And a toast to the Holy Mother, for bringing her Children to rest!” Lady Skyreach added. Her husband smiled at her adoringly. 

Drunken praises to Dadia, the patron goddess of Stepes, erupted throughout the hall. Many went out to Echolyse as well. Arion Sylph cheered good-naturedly, though Hyperion knew that Briarean elves championed the Nymphae. 

_Sentimental nonsense,_ Hyperion thought. _Neither the Sovereign nor the gods were present when Lycan bent the knee. Did any of the five gods lead the Garrison into the city? Did they lower the banner of the Insurgents, and replace it with the crown’s?_

It certainly wasn’t the motherly Dadia or the wise Echolyse that orchestrated the Red Massacre at the end of the Liberation. Hyperion clearly remembered it being Skyreach himself that turned the city against the Insurgents sheltering from the Sovereign’s warpath. 

Hyperion had been in the Palace during the Liberation. Master of Defense he may be, he felt no desire to swing a sword and claim glory on the battlefield. Hyperion was a strategist. Wars were not won using only brute strength.

“He was completely cold-blooded,” Sylph was saying to some commonfolk servants, skin flushed from the alcohol. “I was ready for him to snap my head off at any moment.” 

“Who?” Hyperion asked, inviting himself to their conversation.

“Who else? Theron Lycan. He was the one kneeling, and yet I still felt like I was intruding in his city. Talk about unyielding.” 

At the mention of the Lycans, Hyperion’s mood soured. He took a sip of the ale, placating himself with thoughts of his bloodwine reserves in the Ironhill. He disliked the ale, and the food was not to his tastes. Although it was cooked with sanguinem to sustain him and the Sanguin soldiers, it was obvious that the Skyreaches were not accustomed to hosting vampires. 

Lady Skyreach excused herself with a bashful smile, stating that her children needed feeding. Hyperion idly watched as she and her tittering handmaidens left the great hall. 

“Lovely thing, isn’t she? Wouldn’t even know she’s lowborn,” Lord Skyreach said, making cow eyes at his wife. 

Hyperion wasn’t surprised that a commoner married into the highest seat in the region. It was par for the course with Stepes. Melissa Skyreach herself was quite plain. He gave a non-committal noise that seemed to satisfy the Governor, as he continued speaking. 

“I met her after Caedis took back the city. Came from the west seeking better prospects, she told me. I couldn’t very well leave her on the roads. It was dangerous for a girl by her lonesome, what with some werewolves still running around.” 

Skyreach paused, and took a thoughtful sip. “Nasty bit of blood in her, but I love Missy all the same. Never thought my children would have werewolf blood, however diluted.”

“Your children are here?” Sylph asked, joining them. “I didn’t see them.” He’d left their table to speak to the singers. 

The Governor grinned proudly. “They’re in their nursery - they’re just babes still. The Sovereign’s got his twins, and now I have mine. Ha! Little Helios and Diana. The sun and the moon, born from the family that reaches for the sky.”

_How original._

“I’ve got a daughter now,” the Suzerain said, eyes softening. “Lazuli Sylph. Gods, she’s four already. It seems like yesterday when she was as young as yours. I heard she can already perform a bit of air magic.” 

He turned to Hyperion, and cocked his head. “How come you’re not spoken for? We’re about the same age. I imagine the Head of the Tydus Clan should have heirs by now. Wouldn’t that be adorable – little Hyperions running around making a fuss about punctuality.”

Hyperion gave him a flat look. “I have heirs. Three of them.” 

“Your siblings don’t count. Surely you can find a spouse, what with Sanguis’ fine marriage prospects. Unless,” he grinned playfully, “you already have someone squirreled away in Starkhall? Perhaps a foreign paramour?” 

“You seem more invested in my romantic affairs than usual,” Hyperion deadpanned. “Perhaps the drink is too strong. It isn’t a Briarean white.” 

“Relax, cheekbones,” Arion said, raising his hands in mock-surrender, “I’m just making friendly conversation.” 

The Master rose gracefully. There were too many friendly conversations for his taste. He looked to the two seated lords before him.

“I should like to retire, Lord Skyreach,” he said, “by your leave.” 

“The night is still yet young. I thought you vampires were nocturnal,” the man laughed. He seemed fond of doing that.

Hyperion offered a tight smile. “Much has happened in the last few weeks.” 

“Don’t let me stop you,” Skyreach waved him off dismissively. 

Hyperion bowed and muttered a polite goodnight. He did not respond to Sylph’s proclamation of ‘sweet dreams, blondie’. 

\---

Even from his temporary chambers, Hyperion could hear Homestead’s uproar. He shut the window with more force than was strictly necessary as yet another firework lit up the sky. 

“Long may Caedis reign,” Hyperion scoffed. “I doubt Lord Skyreach will be singing the same tune once he realizes who his next Potentate is.” 

Though Dadia’s Rest was a far better castle than many in Stepes, it still paled in comparison to the Redfyre Palace or even Dragonfyre Keep. As such, Hyperion’s room was sparsely decorated. It possessed the bare amenities that one would provide a guest. 

He’d ordered a servant to prepare a bath. They didn’t seem pleased to be drawn from the festivities, but Hyperion was not particularly concerned. After having a near-scalding soak, his mind felt clearer and sharper.

He was going to push the Suzerain for a swift return to the capital. He did not have the time for celebrations in Homestead. Now that Lupus Crossing was unsealed, the Inner Circle would begin preparations for the royal marriage. Perhaps he could write to Reyna to stall them.

No, it was too late for that. The Covenese envoy would be arriving in the Annex shortly, if they had not done so already. It wouldn’t be long before the Lycan arrived to claim his throne. 

Hyperion filled a cup with water from the pitcher resting on the table. He eyed the clear liquid dispassionately. The days he’d spent in this city were resurfacing thoughts of his largest oversight.

The famous Liberation of Homestead.

Though the crown had slowly been reclaiming Stepes, it marked the turning point of the war. The Viper’s aggression had taken the Insurgents by surprise. The combined force of the Sovereign and the Suzerain decimated their ranks all the way to the shores of the Mellow Sea.

The entire Liberation was a very dangerous gamble, one that Hyperion had encouraged. With the Potentate’s death that same year, the loss of the Viper and his Suzerain would have left the royal heirs without a clear regent. 

Eurydice would have no leader. All Hyperion needed to do was wait. 

He had planned for an impending power vacuum. He’d bided his time for that moment - gaining the Sovereign’s trust, placing himself in the Inner Circle, grooming potential allies. Reyna’s referral as the Master of Intelligence seamlessly installed another Tydus in the capital. 

The Viper should have been drunk on his victories in Stepes. He should have continued marching west, attacking the Insurgents on their own territory. Hyperion had bet on Ayden Caedis’ overconfidence. Without military backing from Coven or the Seas, the Garrison would not win on Annexian soil.

Instead, the Viper turned and slithered back to the Ironhill. Hyperion had practically been sitting on the Red Throne when it slipped from his grasp. 

Damien Caedis and Selene Caedis both died when they travelled west. Ayden Caedis should have been no different. 

_Five years,_ he thought, gripping his cup tightly. _Five years I’ve spent making up for the Insurgents’ failure to kill two men. All my plans are sidelined because of Theron fucking Lycan._

Hyperion tasted blood as his fangs sliced through his bottom lip. He hissed in a mixture of pain and bitterness, wiping the dark liquid with the back of his hand. His cup was knocked over in the process. 

Hyperion rose from the table, lest he upend it in his ire. He ran pale hands through his damp hair. In times like these, he understood why brutish thugs were so fond of using their fists. 

“No matter,” he said aloud to himself. “The Red Throne is not yet lost. We will no doubt move faster than Livingstone’s envoy. Tyrant’s March is known to be riddled with bandits and thieves. Perhaps the young Lycan will meet an unfortunate end.” 

It was decided, then. They would leave for the capital tomorrow. 

Hyperion growled as a red firework split the heavens. This would be a long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spotlight: Skyreach Clan  
>   
> The Skyreaches claim descent from Sovereign Dadia Stareyes, and their seat is Dadia’s Rest in Homestead. They are the Great Clan of Stepes, and the youngest of the six Great Clans. The Skyreaches control a large portion of Eurydice’s agricultural sector, as the highly variable conditions in Stepes make it a good location for different types of farming. Being responsible for almost two-thirds of Eurydice’s food has made them quite wealthy relative to other noble commonfolk houses, although the crown and the Master of Finance often impose restrictions on the prices they can charge for their region’s produce. While initially a werewolf-friendly clan, the relationship between the Skyreaches and the Wolffs became incredibly strained following the Invasion of Stepes.  
> The Skyreach words are: Beyond the Clouds We Shine. Recent members include:  
> {Garin Skyreach}, former Lord of Dadia's Rest and Governor of Stepes. He died during the Invasion.  
> {Seraphine Skyreach}, former Lady of Dadia's Rest. She served as regent until her death of illness.  
> {Arthur Skyreach}, first child of Garin and Seraphine. Died during the Invasion.  
> {Peter Skyreach}, second child. Died during the Invasion.  
> Ramsay Skyreach, third child. Current Lord of Dadia's Rest and Governor of Stepes.  
> Melissa Skyreach, wife of Ramsay and Lady of Dadia's Rest.  
> Diana Skyreach, older twin daughter of Ramsay and Melissa. She is a baby.  
> Helios Skyreach, younger twin son. He is a baby.


	9. The Crossing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's nothing like the open road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's all fun and games now, but the capital is definitely inching closer.
> 
> CONTENT WARNING: Violence

Orion Livingstone  
Lupus Crossing, 28 War

***

“Keep that up,” Orion sighed blissfully, “and I might just take you back to Stonerose with me.” He propped himself up using one of the many pillows.

The brunette werewolf nipped his ear with a playful growl. Orion leaned back, allowing her full access to his body. The pale blonde one giggled, tracing a finger over the many runes across Orion’s bare chest. He ran his hand down her waist in response. The scent of their perfume hung thickly in the air.

“I’ve always wanted to live in a big, fancy castle,” the brunette said lowly. Orion loved how the Annexian accent sounded from her lips. “I’d wear shiny jewels to match my fancy gowns. Everyone would call me ‘my lady’.”

“My lady,” Orion said, “you don’t need fancy gowns. You look positively dazzling without them.”

“How do I look?” the blonde pouted. She climbed into his lap, pressing close against him. Orion gripped her hips to stabilize her. The brunette moved from his side, and instead turned her ministrations to the other woman. It was quite a sight to behold.

“It appears that I’ve forgotten,” Orion replied, hooking his index finger into the strap of her sheer slip. “Care to remind me?”

The glow of his ‘summon’ rune was an unwelcome distraction. Orion flipped over and straddled the blonde, kissing slowly down her abdomen. The pulse of magic grew more insistent. Orion groaned and rose from the bed.

“Alas,” he said, looking at the women regretfully, “I’m needed elsewhere.”

“Come back soon, my lord,” the blonde said. She gasped as the brunette continued where Orion had left off.

At yet another pulse, Orion began to dress hurriedly. He stole one last look at the women. They seemed to be enjoying themselves. The brunette locked eyes with him as he left the room, smile sultry and dark. He had half a mind to turn around.

The ‘summon’ rune glowed, brighter this time. He sighed, and made his way out of the fine establishment. His horse was waiting for him, tail swishing languidly. Orion mounted it, and began to ride towards the large gates of Lupus Crossing.

His mother’s – or rather her vassals’ – envoy had arrived in the city not long ago. They were stationed by the gates, awaiting the arrival of the Lycan party. Orion had grown bored of waiting. He’d instead left to see what the famous Annexian city could offer. He grinned to himself. The prized Livingstone sword had found many worthy sheaths.

Finn Duhamel, the man leading the delegation, had issued the summon. He was as stoic as they came. Perhaps Orion should have found someone for him – a good romp cured all. Though the envoy flew the Livingstone banner, Duhamel bore a small green rose on his coat.

 _Which clan was the green rose again?_ Orion wondered as he rode towards him. He tried to ignore the ache in his muscles. It had been years since he’d relied on horses to this extent. The Covenese envoy had left their vehicles behind in the nearest town as they’d approached the Annex. While Lupus Crossing itself allowed for vehicular travel, the trails leading to the city proved easier to navigate on horseback. A number of carriages trailed behind them in the event that someone grew tired of riding or wished to store heavier items. Orion was none too fond of remaining in the carriages as the world flashed behind him, opting to sit astride a horse and feel the wind in his hair. He'd grown to regret that decision after the first muscle pulled. 

Duhamel’s lips were set in a hard line. Orion had initially thought the man to be constantly angry, but days spent on the road together suggested that it was just his face. He sidled up to Duhamel leisurely.

“Why does this city have such a big-ass gate?” Orion asked after an empty silence. “Not even the Rose Gate is this huge - and it’s supported by two big-ass statues whenever it rises from beneath the Southern Sea.”

“Whoever controls the crossing controls the Annex,” Duhamel said neutrally.

Orion looked up at the tall walls. Many people wearing the Garrison’s uniform traversed its length. The crown’s banner waved gently in the cold wind. Another one – a black tower on a field of blue and silver – sat by its side. Orion had a guess as to which clan it represented.

“I suppose the Potentate’s family controls it now,” he muttered.

A flurry of activity caught his attention. Orion turned to see a small group of riders, all of them bearing the same black tower. The Lycan party had finally arrived. They were led by a man that looked equally as stoic as Duhamel.

Duhamel met the man, and the two of them traded words. Orion remained in place, not interested in whatever they were saying. He idly watched as an old vehicle rumbled past. Its passengers watched them curiously. _They likely aren’t used to seeing so many mages in the city._

At a nod from Duhamel, the Covenese envoy rode past the gates of the city. The Lycan guards fanned out at the back of their caravan, protecting against enemies from behind.

Orion spurred his horse forward. He took one last wistful look at the city. He didn’t remember the names of those two werewolf women, but they had certainly made a lasting impression.

\---

The backwoods of the Annex seemed endless. The town with their vehicles was still some distance away across the Covenese border. They had stopped to rest the horses, but Orion found himself itching for something to do. He’d looped around the group at least three times, yet the person he was searching for remained elusive.

 _They would have passed through Stonerose anyway,_ Orion chided himself. _I was better off just staying at Living Stone until then._

He ruffled his jet-black hair in frustration. Perhaps the man who’d led the Lycan party would know where the Potentate-to-be was. Just as Orion turned to look for him, a small body collided with his.

“Fucking hell,” Orion griped, “watch where you’re going, mate.”

“You ran into me!” came the high-pitched reply.

He blinked in surprise when he saw a young girl glaring back at him. She crossed her arms defiantly, twin braids doing nothing to tame her wild brown hair. Her clothes suggested that she was highborn, yet there was mud caking her cloak and boots.

“Who are you?” Orion asked, brows furrowing. He didn’t recognize her at all. She certainly wasn’t a mage.

“Who are _you_?” the girl countered.

Orion’s eye twitched. “I asked first, but I’ll set a good example this once. I am Orion Livingstone, heir to Living Stone.” He added the last portion as an afterthought.

“In that case, my name is Luna Lycan.” His title didn’t seem to concern the girl. Was she not as highborn as he thought? Wait.

“Lycan?” Orion inquired. “From the clan that we’re escorting to the Ironhill?”

He gave Luna Lycan a quick once-over. She couldn’t be older than eleven. But, his mother had said that the next Potentate was a Lycan. _Could it be…?_

“My father is here, too,” Luna said, “and my older brother. He’s getting married.”

 _Oh, thank the gods._ Orion sighed with relief. “Where is your brother now?”

“He’s this way. You can follow me, if you want.” With that, Luna raced off in the direction she had been going. She was surprisingly fast. Orion had to break into a light jog to keep up.

They came upon a man about Orion’s age, sitting off from the group. He smiled at Luna, but raised his brows in confusion when he saw Orion. The mage offered a friendly wave, and took a seat across from him.

“I’ve been looking for you,” Orion said, plucking up the grass. He poured magic into his ‘transformation’ rune, watching as the green blades changed into yellow daffodils.

“Congratulations,” Luna’s brother responded, watching Orion’s display of alchemy, “you’ve found me. Who are you?”

 _Are all Lycans like this?_ Orion wondered. The man looked at him expectantly.

“He’s Orion Livingstone,” Luna supplied. She scooped up some of the daffodils, and began shredding them. Orion didn’t know how to react to that. He’d thought that the girl would make some sort of crown out of the flowers.

“Livingstone?” her brother said. “I assumed your family’s vassals would be escorting us. I didn’t think the Livingstones would ride out here themselves.”

Orion shrugged. “I wanted to see Lupus Crossing now that it’s open. It certainly doesn’t hurt that it gives me more time away from my mother.”

Lycan perked at the mention of Lyra. “You don’t like your mother?” he asked, sounding oddly intrigued.

“I’d like to know your name before I divulge family secrets,” Orion said.

“Quill Lycan,” the man responded after a brief hesitation.

Orion transformed more grass into daffodils. “Luna said you were getting married in the capital. I take it you’re the famous Potentate that’s going to end the war.”

Quill’s face immediately became guarded. He nodded stiffly. Orion wondered who had pissed in his wine.

“Brilliant!” Orion exclaimed, forcing a grin. “You’re a bit younger than I thought, but no matter. I’ve come to commend you on your valiant efforts. I, for one, think it’s great that a werewolf should sit the throne. It’s about time, isn’t it?”

Quill snorted, and looked mortified by the action. Orion’s grin became a little less forced. He looked around their isolated spot, and wondered why Lycan had been sitting by himself.

“Why were you sitting by yourself?” Orion asked. He leaned back in his pile of daffodils.

Quill shrugged. “I had no desire to speak to my father. Things between us have been tense the past few weeks.”

That piqued Orion’s interest. “Why?”

“I had little part in my own marriage. He decided everything, and didn’t even have the decency to tell me until recently.” Quill cocked his head at Orion. “A deal is a deal. I told you my name. Now you tell me why you’re avoiding your mother.”

Orion wasn’t able to answer, however, as shouts from the others indicated that the caravan would soon be moving. Luna groaned and flopped over.

“You’re the one who wanted to come,” Quill said, ruffling her hair. “Being on the road isn’t nearly as fun as you’d think.”

Orion thought about how much time they had left before they would reach Stonerose. He huffed, and followed Luna’s example. Quill looked at both of them in exasperation.

The man who’d spoken to Duhamel back in Lupus Crossing approached them, already horsed. He frowned. Orion didn’t miss the way Quill tensed.

“Get on your horses,” he said. “It’s time to leave. We can reach the border by nightfall if we push hard enough.” With that, he turned and headed back towards Duhamel.

“Who put that man in charge?” Orion asked, rolling his eyes.

Quill sighed. “That was my father,” he said lowly, “Theron Lycan. The self-made Governor of the Annex.”

Orion watched Theron Lycan with distaste. He rose and headed towards the tree he had tethered his horse to.

“Wait for me here,” he said to Quill. “I’ve had no one to talk to since we left Lupus Crossing. It won’t take long to get my horse.”

Orion jogged past the mess of people in the delegation. He thought he overheard mentions of thieves up ahead, but he paid them no heed. Tyrant's March was notorious for bandits, but it was not as bad as the Gold Road. Orion doubted that they would be foolish enough to attack a group as large as theirs.

Quill and Luna had already mounted their horses when Orion returned. The three of them occupied the outskirts of the caravan. The ride was fairly quiet until one of the Lycans – Luna this time – spoke.

“You never said why you don’t like your mother,” she pointed out, looking mildly interested.

Orion inspected his nails. “Probably because she’s a stone-cold bitch,” he deadpanned. Quill looked taken aback.

“That’s a bold statement,” the Lycan stated flatly. “Is she anything like my father?”

“She’s like any rose, I suppose,” Orion finally answered. “Pretty, but untouchable. My father always said they married for love. I believed him, for a time. She was never quite the same after he disappeared.”

Orion felt his face soften when he thought about how his mother had once been. Her tongue had always been too sharp for her to be considered nice, but she wasn’t always as cold and distant as the stars his family members named themselves after. Before his father disappeared, she had been … alright.

A younger Orion had even enjoyed spending time with her. He remembered curling up in Lyra’s large bed late at night, watching her at her desk. The low light of her lamp made her blonde hair look almost orange. The sounds of Stonerose and the gentle scratch of her pen would often lull him to sleep.

She always did that – writing. As a child, he had never bothered to learn what it was that frequently kept her attention. Now, however, he would bet a thousand crowns that she’d been drafting plans that would keep their region alive as the war grew ever more expensive.

“Disappeared?” Quill asked, frowning. “What happened to your father?”

Orion gave a humourless laugh. “That’s the million-crown question. He went sailing across the Southern Sea a few years ago. His ship was recovered, but he and his crew weren’t. My family doesn’t talk about him very often.”

Quill looked sympathetic. He opened his mouth to speak. Orion desperately needed a new topic before the man started offering his sincerest apologies.

“So,” Orion said swiftly, “is it just you and Luna? It’s the same for my little brother and I.”

Luna shook her head feverishly. “We have other siblings! Lorelei, Ezra, Quill, Viscardi, and me.”

Orion whistled. “Five children? Most nobles in Coven have two or three, but I suppose that may not be the same for every region. Why aren’t they travelling with us?”

“They stayed in the Annex,” Quill said. His eyes looked sad.

“Tell me about them,” Orion said, hoping to avoid an emotional conversation.

Quill perked. “I’m of an age with my older siblings,” he said lightly. “Lorelei taught Ezra and I how to use a bow when we were younger. We once tried hunting for squirrels with them, but got completely turned around in the woods. It was the first time either of us was out there without Lorelei or a castle steward.”

Orion motioned for him to continue speaking, and Quill obliged.

“There was a charging buck – I think we wandered into its territory. We Shifted and tried to fight it like the werewolves from the stories, but we were little boys and it was a huge deer.”

Luna looked enraptured. “What happened next?”

“Lorelei happened. She saw the small bows that she made for us were missing, and figured that we snuck out of the Tower. She tracked us down.” Quill smiled fondly. “It was amazing. She took it down with one arrow, and we helped her haul it back to the kitchens. I’m still not sure if our mother was proud or angry.”

“I’m jealous,” Orion said, despondent. “Corvus and I rarely had fun adventures like that. He spends all his time in Living Stone’s rookery.”

Their amicable chatter was interrupted as a group of men suddenly intercepted their caravan. Orion’s horse whinnied, and he tightened the reins to keep it from bucking. He and Quill exchanged confused glances, before Orion rode ahead.

Most of the men were horsed, though Orion saw a few black vehicles idling in the distance. They carried no visible banners or identifying sigils. There were more than a few poorly concealed knives and firearms underneath their cloaks.

_Bandits. Damn it. Damn it all to hell._

Duhamel was speaking to what looked like the leader of the strange group. Orion neared them, listening in on their conversation.

“-mages this close to the Annex,” Orion heard the leader say. He had a nasty scar that went across his yellow eyes.

“Tyrant’s March is not exclusive to the Annex,” Duhamel replied. “We are headed east. That is all you need to know. Let us pass.”

“I can’t let you do that,” the leader drawled, baring his sharp teeth in a sly grin. “I’m under strict orders, you see.”

_Damn it, damn it, damn it. The whole point of us being here was to discourage looters._

Theron Lycan strode past Orion, unfazed. “And what are those orders?”

The leader’s grin fell as soon as he saw Theron. His eyes glowed intensely, and Orion swore that his teeth sharpened. The other men slowly began reaching for their weapons. Orion braced himself for a fight.

“To take what they owe,” the scarred man snarled. “Traitor.”

He pulled out a blunderbuss, aimed it at Theron, and fired.

Orion reacted instinctively. He raised his arms, and the incomplete rune on his left wrist flashed brightly. He poured as much magic and focus as he could into it. The large bullet stopped in its path, vibrating vigorously. Several see-through replicates sprang forth from the arrested bullet. The translucent images phased through each other wildly; an echoing ring emanated from them.

 _Magical backlash,_ Orion panicked. His body fought his attempts to power the unstable rune. He looked at the wide-eyed leader, and directed his magic towards his specialized ‘movement’ rune instead. The bullet immediately turned on its owner, hitting him square in the shoulder.

All hell broke loose at the man’s pained screech. His crew pulled out their weapons, rounding on the caravan. The mages met them with alchemy, while the Lycan guards drew their swords. Duhamel and Theron worked in sync to unhorse the leader.

Orion clutched his arm, left wrist burning. He cursed softly. Channelling magic using an unfinished rune had been risky. Many mages carved runes on external conduits rather than on their bodies for this reason. There wasn’t much Orion could do but wait for the pain to subside – healing magic had never been his forte.

The bandits were soon overpowered by the combined force of the mages and werewolves. Orion looked up as Quill and Luna rode towards him. Quill’s teeth seemed sharper than usual. Luna looked wide-eyed as her brother wedged her horse in-between his and Orion’s.

It wasn’t long before the remaining bandits scattered. Their horses raced away as the mages threw more magic at them. The vehicles disappeared over the horizon. Orion felt a bit of tension leave his shoulders as Duhamel raised a hand, calling off their attacks.

Theron and Duhamel were on the ground, inspecting the fallen leader. Someone had hit him with a fire rune. Orion felt queasy, but moved closer anyway.

“Who were those men?” Orion asked.

Duhamel looked up at Orion. He was certain for a moment that the grim man would ask about the rune he’d used, but Duhamel turned his gaze back to the leader.

“Bandits, most like,” he answered. “They must have been werewolves from Stepes.”

“No,” Theron said, amber eyes narrowed. If he was shaken by the firearm that had been directed towards him earlier, he did not show it. Theron glared down at the fallen men ruefully.

“If not bandits, then who?” Duhamel questioned. His eyes followed Theron’s.

“Wolff loyalists. This man knew their clan words.” Theron mounted his horse, looking at Duhamel. “Our course remains the same. Their ranks will thin out once we cross into Coven.”

Duhamel nodded. He shouted orders at the mages in the delegation. It wasn’t long before they were moving swiftly once again.

Orion shifted uncomfortably. He’d assumed that all of the werewolves had rallied behind the Lycans. His thoughts drifted to some of his mother’s vassals. The mage shook his head, and kept riding.

\---  
_Stonerose_  
\---

The rest of Tyrant’s March proved uneventful. Once they reached the town with their vehicles, navigating through Coven became a small matter. Paravau melted into Vanin, which then melted into Eastrey. Orion passed the days with Quill and Luna. They seemed enchanted by the rising buildings, widespread magic, and heavy vehicle use.

Lupus Crossing hadn’t looked _that_ different from many of the denser Covenese cities. Orion found himself wondering what the rest of the Annex looked like.

It wasn’t long before they came upon the shimmering white buildings of Stonerose. Living Stone sat upon the mountain that entombed its massive Philosopher’s Stone, overlooking the ports lining the sea and the ships that docked on them. Orion felt relieved as they drove up the cobbled streets towards the sprawling castle.

They were met by his family’s attendants. After much shuffling about, he and the three Lycans found themselves within the castle’s familiar halls. Orion couldn’t wait to collapse in his bed. His mother, however, chose that moment to make her grand appearance.

“Lord Lycan,” Lyra said, “I trust that you found little trouble on your journey. I am the Lady of Living Stone, and the Governor of Coven. Stonerose welcomes you.”

She was accompanied by the full complement of the castle’s staff. The deep purple gown she wore looked expensive, her glittering gemstones accentuating its details. Her hair was its usual radiant blonde. Lady Livingstone exuded sheer perfection. Orion resisted rolling his eyes.

“Save for a small skirmish,” Theron replied, “Coven has treated us well.” He motioned towards Quill and Luna. “These are my children. Quill, my third; and Luna, my fifth.”

“Quill Lycan,” Lyra said, giving him the barest hint of a curtsy, “it is a great honor to host a future monarch.”

“See to it that the Lycans are settled.” Orion’s mother did not give Quill a chance to respond as she spoke to her servants. She turned to Theron with a pleasant smile. “I am sure you’ve grown tired of travel food. My kitchens are preparing several fine courses for tonight. Do join my sons and I come suppertime.”

“It would be a pleasure,” Theron met her smile with one of his own.

The servants moved to collect their things and direct them to their chambers. Orion watched as Lyra and Theron exchanged more words. They began to walk together, a few of Lyra’s attendants trailing behind them at a respectful distance.

Orion cast an exasperated look to Quill, who returned it with a shake of his head. He walked with the remaining Lycans as the servants ushered them to their rooms. His own chambers were in that same direction, and it wouldn’t hurt to spend more time with the werewolves.

“They seem to be getting along,” Quill stated dryly. “Probably discussing political alliances already. I wouldn’t be surprised – they seem quite similar.”

Orion snorted. “Gods, imagine a combination of those two. A child raised by both of them would be fucked up beyond belief.”

“Father’s not too bad,” Luna protested. “Quill and I turned out fine. Lorelei and Ezra, too.”

“Not Viscardi?” Quill asked, eyes glinting in amusement.

“Viscardi is awful.”

Quill chuckled. “He’s fifteen. That’s just how teenage boys are. Which, by the way, you should stay away from.”

“Corvus is around that age,” Orion said thoughtfully. “They might’ve gotten along. Echolyse knows that boy needs to get out more.”

It was Quill’s turn to snort. “Viscardi would probably clash with other boys his age,” he said. “He spends more time with the girls in the town than he does anyone else.”

Orion gave a low whistle. “Does he, now? You might have a little heartbreaker on your hands.”

“I wish. Like as not, they’re gossiping about events three cities over.”

Luna excitedly tugged on Orion’s arm. “There’s another kid here?”

“Don’t let Corvus hear you calling him a kid,” Orion laughed. “Please harass him, Luna. Please. I’ll be forever in your debt. I swear on my honor as a mage and a Livingstone.”

They came across the hallway that held the rooms of the Livingstone members. Orion bid the Annexians adieu. He would see them for what would no doubt be an interesting supper.

\---

Lady Livingstone had certainly outdone herself. The ambience in Living Stone’s informal dining room was soft yet tasteful, the food was fresh and finely prepared, and the servants ensured that their cups were never empty. Lyra had even seen fit to serve her beloved Briarean whites.

Corvus sat beside him, absentmindedly stabbing his roast. His green eyes looked bored. Orion wouldn’t be surprised if he was daydreaming about the rookery behind those black curls. Quill and Luna were near their father. The werewolf girl had been diligently attempting to converse with Corvus. Orion truly wished her luck in that endeavor.

The wine was chilled and sweet as Orion downed it. He activated his ‘movement’ rune, and the nearest bottle floated to his side and refilled his cup. Lyra sent a particularly fierce glare at him from the head of the table. Orion lifted his drink in a mocking toast.

“Alchemical magic is quite fascinating,” Theron said from the table’s other end. “It’s quite different from its elemental sister.”

“It is certainly more versatile,” Lyra replied. “Though younger, mages have greatly refined our magic more so than our elven counterparts. The Bluerose Institute of Alchemy here in Stonerose rivals Courtmere’s Arcane Institute.” Orion could detect pride in her voice.

Theron took a sip of wine. “Perhaps the Annex shall have its own university in time. I imagine that higher education will become a priority amongst my people, what with the war’s end.”

Lyra smiled. “It may even be a joint venture. I should like to learn more about Shifting and transformation,” she said conversationally. “Coven has seen a notable increase in its werewolf population over the years. I would do well, as the Governor, to better know my most recent subjects.”

She spared a glance at Orion. “This would serve my eldest, as well. As the heir to Living Stone, he sits on quite the important position. A shame, Lord Theron, that your two eldest heirs are otherwise unavailable.”

“It’s always heirs and alliances and successions with you,” Orion muttered. “Gods, are you planning to drop dead at every moment?”

Perhaps he had had more to drink than he realized. It was an easy mistake with Briarean whites. Lyra looked like she would have been thrilled if Orion, instead, dropped dead at this moment.

“It appears that you are tired,” she intoned, smile dangerously saccharine. “The open road is new to you. Why don’t you retire?”

 _It’s not new to me, and you know it. I haven’t spent this much time here in years._ Orion rose, swaying gently. He grabbed his wine before a servant could clear it.

Theron watched him impassively. “Lady Livingstone is correct. This new generation is not accustomed to long journeys on horseback. Quill, Luna – you two should rest as well. It won’t be long until we are in the capital.”

Luna shook her head. “But, I’m not-”

“Yes, father,” Quill said, grabbing his sister. He made to join Orion.

“I should like to rest as well,” Corvus said politely. At Lyra’s nod, he was off at a brisk pace. Orion stepped out of his brother’s way as he waited for Quill to wrangle his sister.

Once in the hall, Orion heaved a mighty sigh. Luna harrumphed and ran off in the direction Corvus had gone, leaving him with Quill. He beckoned for his friend to follow him.

“That was the first time the three of us have had a meal together in years,” Orion said, stretching. “I must say I won’t be doing that again anytime soon. Admittedly, I’ve never seen my mother go this long without throwing barbs at someone.”

“Nor have I seen my father talk to another without ordering them about,” Quill responded. He seemed quite baffled.

Orion slung an arm across Quill’s shoulder, giving him a boyish grin. He clapped the werewolf across the back. Quill looked at him in bemusement.

“The Lycans and Livingstones have surprisingly good chemistry,” Orion joked.

“I can’t imagine why.”

The young men laughed good-naturedly. Orion looked over his shoulder at the room that still held the two Governors. Had Theron not expelled his lieges, he and Lyra would likely have never met. It was strange how their vastly different clans could produce what was essentially the same person.

Orion shook his head. Fucked up beyond belief, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spotlight: Routes
> 
> Tyrant’s March: Formally called Rose’s March, this was the route that Sovereign Gideon Rosemont used during his conquest of Lunae Lumen in the Rose Era. It is also the path that the werewolves followed when they were relocated to the Annex. Many merchants use Tyrant’s March as an alternative route to the Gold Road.
> 
> Gold Road: An ambitious (pun intended) endeavor, the Gold Road was created during the Gold Era to link the territories gained by Eurydice during its expansion in the Ambition Era. It is the longest unbroken road in Eurydice. This was spearheaded by Potentate Cyrus Goldenbriar. Its commercial origin is in Stonerose. This path is most often used by merchants, as it crosses or at least gets quite close to many major cities in the kingdom. Due to high traffic and valuable cargo, bandits tend to congregate in the more secluded areas of this road - thus making Tyrant’s March more attractive for people heading west. 
> 
> Adamantine Trail: Tyrant’s March and the Gold Road both meet at Lupus Crossing, and a single road extends into the Annex. It was unclear which road it was, and so it was named the Adamantine Trail instead. It is the major path used by travelers in this area. Its name is a testament to the strong will of the werewolf people, as Eurydice has not always been kind.


	10. One Family, Fractured

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A trip down memory lane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got bullied into watching Netflix's Asian dramas, and I'm not even mad. The men are so fine, and for what? I wish I could draw but the most I can say is that Ayden is definitely inspired by a lot of the male leads. When they push back their hair and hit that middle part *chef's kiss*. Also .... Guren Ichinose.  
> Anyway, this chapter is kind of like the calm before the storm. Hope you enjoy it!

Ayden Caedis  
The Ironhill, 28 War

***

“Perhaps this one?” Ayden asked, holding up the crown template lined with false rubies. 

“Perhaps not.” Reyna wrinkled her nose, as if somehow offended by his choice.

The Inner Circle had tasked the jewelers in and around the Ironhill with creating the new Potentate’s official crown. Ayden and Reyna sat at a rounded table in the indoor gardens of the Palace. The year was drawing to a close; winter would soon lay claim to the east. 

Before the two vampires were several makeshift designs. Ayden placed the surrogate crown near the growing pile of its rejected siblings. He reached for another template, this one with sapphires, and held it up for inspection.

Reyna raised an eyebrow at him. Ayden sighed in defeat. The family of forlorn crowns gained another member. 

“Reyna,” he muttered, “the point of you being here was not to reject everything.” 

“I know,” she replied. “The point was for me to help choose a crown worthy of the left hand of the Red Throne. Our little symbol of peace.” 

Reyna waved her own left hand. Her attendants presented them with yet more options. Ayden never wanted to see another crown in his life. He groaned in frustration as Reyna thoroughly inspected a dome-shaped one lined with pearls. 

“One of these must meet your lofty expectations,” Ayden said, leaning back in his chair. He idly watched as the gardeners tended to the plants. Many of the more fragile ones were being carted to the safety of the indoors. He himself was not particularly fond of the cold that winter brought. 

“Is it a crime to want the best?” Reyna crossed her legs, the slit in her dress shifting as she moved. “Royal marriages are important historic occasions, this one doubly so.”

“The Annex bent the knee not long ago. We have other priorities now that the war is over. It isn’t wise to be spending all this money – and time - on a wedding.” 

“You sound like Hyperion. Our Master of Finance already approved the expenditure,” Reyna gave him a considering look. “The war has exhausted Eurydice. A lavish wedding will be a balm that the kingdom desperately needs. A nice,” she flicked a displaced amethyst towards him, “distraction.” 

Ayden lifted up a silver diadem, slowly turning it in a circle. He set it aside in the frighteningly small ‘accepted’ pile. It was a tad too simplistic to be an official crown, but perhaps it could be of use for something else. 

“Oh, I like this one,” Reyna was saying. “No, wait. Never mind. The backside is horrendous.” 

“If I didn’t know better,” Ayden said dryly, “I’d think you were preparing for your own wedding.” 

“That will be a while in coming. This one looks promising.” 

Reyna gave a thoughtful hum as she admired a diamond template. She moved towards Ayden, and gently brushed his dark hair from his face. Ayden sat still as the crown was delicately lowered onto his head. 

She adjusted his hair around it, her fingers lingering as she did so. Ayden allowed her touch to remain. Blood-red eyes met ice-blue, something unspoken between them. Reyna returned to her seat with a satisfied nod. 

They looked up as a third person approached. Lady Fiona had entered the gardens, retinue trailing behind her. The stately woman pursed her lips as she observed the crowns. 

“There you two are,” Fiona said. “When they told me that you were in the gardens, I thought for sure you meant to sit outside in this weather. It may shine now, but the sun darkens with each passing day.” 

“Why, Lady Fiona,” Reyna drawled, “it almost sounds like you’re concerned for our wellbeing.” 

Fiona sniffed at such a foul accusation. Her brown eyes fell on the diamond crown that Ayden still wore. 

“I was under the impression that these crowns were for the Potentate.”

Ayden shrugged. “I was keeping them warm for him.” He paused. “An older, more experienced eye might help. What are your thoughts on these, Lady Fiona?” 

A chair was quickly procured for her. The elf began sifting through the different piles Ayden and Reyna had made. Her gaze was sharp and critical as she inspected each item. Fiona’s jewels clinked against the metal frames. 

“No. No. Definitely not. This one is not too bad – no, wait. It’s horrendous. No.” 

Ayden removed the diamond crown, placing it near the diadem. He massaged his forehead. “I forgot how tedious royal ceremonies can be.” 

“What is left to be done?” Reyna asked. She and Fiona had been intensely studying one studded with garnets. 

“The reason behind these crowns, for one - the coronation. Getting the Grand Seer to the Ironhill will be challenging. She’ll be busy preparing for the new year.”

“There are twenty-five people on the Council of the Seer,” Fiona said dismissively. “I’m sure the Echolysian Faith will survive during her absence from Courtmere.” 

Ayden fiddled with a peridot. “That still leaves the wedding. We need to finalize the rest of the royal invitations, prepare the Palace for guests, and decide seating arrangements both in the Iron Cathedral and at the celebrations afterwards. Workings in the Cathedral itself are going slower than I would like. The Potentate’s wing has been unused since my mother bore that title – it needs to be ready for its new occupant.

“There will no doubt be an influx of people in the Ironhill soon. The Military Police has to be bolstered to accommodate them. Gods, where is Hyperion when he’s needed?”

Fiona tapped the table’s surface, stopping Ayden in his tracks. She set aside a coronet with rose quartzes. One of them looked cracked. 

“I’ll see to the wedding,” she said primly. “My elves will ensure that it is as spectacular as befits the royal family. I trust that Reyna has the coronation under control. Hyperion will ensure the safety of the city once he returns – which will be soon, gods allowing. I’m sure that you and Arion can handle the Palace.” 

Ayden blinked. “I … yes.”

“Good,” Fiona turned towards Reyna. “Run along now, Reyna. Off to your little spies.” 

Ice-blue eyes narrowed briefly, before Reyna smiled politely. She rose gracefully, dismissed herself with a curt bow, and sauntered away. She took her attendants with her. Ayden cocked his head at Fiona inquisitively. 

Fiona rested her hand on top of Ayden’s. “Look at you,” she said, “you weren’t nearly this stressed when you took the throne.” 

“I’m not stressed.” 

Fiona looked unimpressed. Ayden capitulated. “I wasn’t alone then. Selene was with me.” 

“You’re not alone now.” 

Ayden gave her a fond smile, resting an arm over her small shoulders. “Just admit that you stay in the Palace because you miss us when you travel to Briar.” 

“Perhaps you would like to organize everything yourself,” Fiona scowled. She did not push him off, however.

“No, no. Don’t be like that. Mother knows best.” 

“I don’t remember birthing you.” Fiona twitched her ears, a tell-tale sign that she was hiding her amusement. It was nice to see that some things hadn’t changed, even after all this time. 

Ayden found himself thinking of what _had_ changed. He’d held the throne for years now, but Selene had only ruled at his side for half of them. He had taken her close proximity for granted. Ayden wondered how things would have been had she lived. Fiona seemed to pick up on his mood, a question in her eyes. 

“Selene would have been a good Sovereign,” Ayden said softly. “Better than me.” 

Fiona frowned. “Selene was proud, and rash. She did what she wanted, consequences be damned. That is not a stable combination.” 

He frowned in turn. “She was passionate. She loved her people.” 

“That love was her demise. The Insurgents would have fallen eventually, regardless of how long that would have taken. There was no need for her to enter their territory on her own.” 

Ayden drew away from the elven woman. He bit back several retorts, and instead settled for strategizing. Compartmentalizing made things easier when leading a country. He tried not to rely on it in other cases, but it was a useful tool whenever he was emotionally distressed. 

“We couldn’t have beaten them in the Annex.”

Fiona levelled him with a flat stare. “As all you warriors say, with your strategy and your tactics.” 

“Taking Stepes back was difficult enough,” Ayden defended. “The Garrison was in no shape for more battles after Homestead. Did you want me to conscript the regions hiding behind the Impasse Treaty? Some Sovereign I would make, dragging _all_ of Eurydice into the war.”

“You Caedises are so fond of arguing,” Fiona said with a shake of her head. 

She stood, tucking her hands into her embroidered shawl. Her graying hair was pinned neatly, dark eyes looking pensive. The sight of her standing amidst the garden flora reminded Ayden of the grounds in Briarlight. 

“I know you do not wish to remarry,” she said, voice lacking its usual thorns, “but it is a step towards peace.” Fiona paused. “You had wanted to travel west yourself for the Annex’s surrender, but once was enough. You Caedises are also fond of valiant sacrifices. I will not lose another.”

With that, Fiona made her way out of the gardens. Her attendants followed closely behind her. 

Ayden sat alone at the table, mind heavy. He was glad to be rid of his father’s war, though he wondered if it could have ended differently. He missed Selene. He missed the colorful landscapes of Briar; the bright fabrics that he and its people wore. He missed when being the Crown Prince had only been a title, not a promise of a heavy crown. 

The Ironhill was a snake’s pit. Though they called him the Viper – no longer the Young Viper, he was a man grown now – Ayden sometimes wished that he could crawl out. 

He hoped that Arion would return soon.

A crown sat atop the rejected pile – the one that both Reyna and Fiona had hated. He hadn’t thought it as awful as they claimed. Ayden spun it around, and exhaled in surprise. 

The back really was horrendous.

***

The arrival of the Suzerain and the Master of Defense filled the capital with a buzz of excitement. News of the war’s end had spread across the kingdom. Each of the regions rejoiced at the conclusion of the decades-long bloodshed. The Inner Circle released a collective sigh of relief as the prospect of a royal wedding grew forefront in Eurydice’s mind. 

Ayden had prepared for fierce opposition to the marriage. Quill Lycan was a werewolf, and a former Insurgent at that. Eurydice did not have the best history with his people. Moreover, Ayden had done much reading on past monarchs. With the exception of the First Sovereign – whose identity was unknown – there had never been a werewolf on the Red Throne. 

Such musing found Ayden drawn to the crypt carved directly into the iron mine that the Redfyre Palace sat upon. The crypt held great stone statues of all the Sovereigns past, from the most beloved to the absolutely detested. More than a few Potentates had found their way underneath the Hill of Iron. It was a wealth of knowledge. Ayden always felt calmer when he was in its darkened atmosphere.

“What would you have done, in my place?” Ayden whispered. The statues did not answer. 

He stood before the statue of Celeste Caedis, the first Sovereign to sit the throne after the theocracy that was the Ambition Era. Celeste was heralded as the greatest of the Sovereigns; the greatest of the Caedises. Ayden wondered if his ancestor ever crept down into the crypts to question her own reign. 

“Ah, Celeste the Great,” said a familiar voice. “With her golden hair, golden eyes, and golden sword Sun Strike. With the help of her golden Potentate, Cyrus Goldenbriar - who built the Gold Road and encased the flames of the Red Throne in gold - she ushered in the Gold Era.”

Arion walked up to Ayden, eyes studying Sovereign Celeste’s likeness. He rested his hands on his hips and struck a thoughtful pose. Ayden playfully bumped his side. 

“Bit heavy on the gold imagery,” Arion muttered sagely. He nodded to himself. 

The Caedis colors were black and gold, and yet his clan had grown rather partial to the latter during their time on the throne. Most of his family had his same black hair with red eyes, yet it was not unusual to find the odd Caedis with hair and eyes like spun gold. 

“She had an aesthetic, and by the gods did she commit to it,” Ayden responded. He wasn’t surprised that his old friend knew where to find him. 

Ayden continued through the crypts, towards its more recent additions. One statue stood grimly. His reign had not been an easy one. The lingering Second Gray Waste, two Mage Uprisings, his wife’s assassination, and a civil war had left Damien Caedis an exhausted man. They’d never had the closest relationship, but there was much that Ayden still wanted to learn from his father. 

Lilith von Drake smiled at her husband’s side. She was a fleeting figure in his memory, but Ayden knew she had been beloved by the kingdom. Her death had sent rippling effects across Eurydice. Ayden wondered how he was going to heal those wounds. 

And then there was Selene. He remembered her rich dark skin, her wild silver hair, and those deep blue eyes. The sculpture captured her likeness, not her fire. This was how she would always be, he realized. Utterly breath-taking, but lifeless. Their time in the Ironhill, in Sanguis, and in Briar felt so far away. She was so far away. 

“I shouldn’t have let her go,” Ayden said softly. “That, or I should have gone with her.” 

Arion was uncharacteristically quiet by his side. He and Selene were as close to each other as he was to Ayden. The two of them had had many inside jokes that even Ayden never quite understood. Arion had been his crutch when she died, much to his regret. He’d spent much time making up for his failure as a friend. 

“You know Selene,” Arion said. “She was always the boldest of our trio.” 

Ayden smiled. “Remember what she would always say when we were younger? To get us to do as she wanted?”

“Back when I was your age…” they both said, laughing in unison. She had been scarcely a year older than them, and yet she pretended to be thrice as wise. The words that followed were often what she had been doing mere months ago. Gods, he missed her. 

“I never saw the war ending this way,” Ayden remarked after a while. “Truth be told, I never saw the war ending. I dreaded a return to constant fighting after this last cold spell.”

Arion shrugged. “Neither side was willing to surrender; Coven and the Seas could only pay for the war for so long. This is not the worst outcome, all things aside. Also,” his mischievous smile returned in full, “the Lycan is quite easy on the eyes. I think you’d like him. A bit on the quiet side, but I swear he and blondie had some sort of pissing contest when they met. You always did like them feisty.” 

Ayden snorted at the idea of the snippy Master being stared down by anyone. He was distracted by a shadow from the corner of his eye, however. There was only one person that would be skulking around this deep in the crypt. 

“I know you’re there, Esme,” Ayden called out. 

A disappointed sigh came from some statue as Esmerelda Caedis stepped out from behind. She pouted and fussed with her silver-blonde hair. The peculiar crypt lighting cast a light green shade over her caramel skin. The princess looked glum as her scheme was thwarted. 

“Vampires and their crypts,” Arion muttered. Esme grinned and hugged Arion from the side. He further mussed up her hair in response. 

“Too much is happening at the surface,” Esme said. “Lady Fiona is on the warpath. Again. I’ll bet you three crowns that someone is being reprimanded as we speak.” 

Arion looked relieved. “Gods know it would’ve been me. Perhaps venturing down here was a premonition.” 

Ayden raised an eyebrow at his daughter. “I refuse to believe that that is the reason you’re down here. What are you up to?” 

Esme blinked dark blue eyes at him innocently. “Whatever do you mean, dear father?” 

“Esmerelda.” 

“Fine, fine. No need for full names,” she sighed. “I … borrowed one of the old training swords and was going to practice with it. But,” she grinned excitedly, “since you’re here, I can use Legionnaire.” 

Ayden unsheathed the large black claymore, admiring its shine and wicked edge. He held it out of Esme’s grasp when she eagerly reached for it. 

“You can look, but you can’t hold it,” he said. She deflated, but relented when he allowed her to run her hands over its broad side. Her fascination with swords was beyond him. 

“Legionnaire will be a relic soon,” Ayden lamented. “Few use swords these days. It’s all firearms this, magic that, technology those.” He waved a hand as he spoke.

“Poor thing,” Arion cooed. “You can put it in the war room with Sun Strike now that it’s obsolete. Or down here, with Dusk and Dawn.”

Esme perked at the mention of her mother’s twin rapiers. “Can I hold Dusk and Dawn, at least? They’re not as large as Legionnaire.”

“No,” Ayden responded. “They’re sharp. And dangerous.” 

“You were younger than me when you learned to use a sword. I want to fight, too.” Her deep blue eyes widened as she pleaded. 

“I did not start with live steel. I didn’t even get Legionnaire until much later. Stop looking at me like that,” Ayden stood his ground.

“Please?”

“No.” A pause. “Fine. But only one. Pick Dawn. The one with the red hilt.” 

Esme smiled triumphantly, all pretenses forgotten. She opened the case at Selene’s feet, gasping in pleasure as the silver blades glinted. If she noticed that Dawn was slightly smaller than its twin, she did not mention it. The princess yelled joyfully as she swung the thin blade around the crypt. Ayden hoped she wouldn’t stab herself. 

“The healers studying in the Asclepius made a recent discovery,” Arion drawled, watching Esme. “It’s called a spine. You might like one, Ayden.” 

“Oh, please,” Ayden retorted, “as if you don’t dote on Persephone and Lazuli like your life depends on it.” 

Arion looked scandalized. “It does! How will they know that they are loved? I would die if they thought they weren’t for even a second.” 

“I like Lady Persephone,” Esme, still swinging, chirped up. “Her earth magic is pretty. I like the thing she does with her flowers and vines.” 

“Even I can’t do earth magic like that, and I’m reputedly a master.” Arion looked pleased at the thought of his wife’s accomplishments. Ayden smirked. 

“I don’t know,” he said, “levelling mountains and raising windstorms is a neat trick.” 

“Maybe I wanted to be a farmer.” 

That drew a laugh from Ayden. He looked at Arion thoughtfully. “It will be good to see Persephone again. Lazuli was still a babe in her arms last I saw her. I assume they will be attending the wedding and coronation?”

Arion nodded and smiled devilishly. “His Majesty is correct. Mayhap we can make more Lazulis while she’s here.” 

Ayden gaped at his friend. “You’d say this in the sacred crypt?” he asked, sounding as mortified as possible. “In view of all the past Eurydicean monarchs? _Right in front of Selene?_ ”

“Selene would be cheering us on. She’s probably pumping her fist and hooting from the other side. _Hells, yeah, Arion! Show those mounds who’s boss!_ ” 

A fond smile broke out on Ayden’s face. He lightly smacked the elf. 

“Stop,” Ayden chuckled. “Your Selene impression is disgustingly accurate. You might seduce me on accident.” 

“It wouldn’t be an accident if I did. I’m also a little offended that I haven’t done so already.” 

“Do you need some privacy?” Esme wrinkled her little nose at them from where she stood, harshly stabbing an invisible enemy. “I can go stand in the corner while you talk things through.” 

Arion’s musical laugh rang clearly through the cold crypt. Ayden felt warm as he observed their antics. This was … nice. It felt good to relax. Such thoughts reminded him of the reason he had needed a break in the first place. 

“It’s time we all left the crypt anyway,” Ayden sighed. “Esme, put Dawn back. Everyone is probably wondering where we are.” 

He ignored their pained groans. “Come on, come on. There’s a kingdom that needs running.” 

His daughter did as she was bid, and the three of them began to walk towards the winding stone steps. Ayden spared one more glance at Selene. It wouldn’t be long before Livingstone’s people arrived. With them would come the Lycans. And then what?

 _One family, fractured so that the nation can be made whole,_ Ayden thought. He looked forward with tremendous effort, put one foot in front of the other, and walked out of the crypt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spotlight: Sylph Clan  
>   
> The Sylphs of Briarlight are quite young compared to other clans in their region. They became the Great Clan after taking control from the Goldenbriars, who themselves had taken it from the old Briarblossoms. Rivalling (and surpassing, if rumors are to be believed) the Livingstones in wealth, the Sylphs own many of the precious gem mines located throughout Briar. Their bloodline is a special one, as many members throughout the clan’s history have had dual air and earth affinities. This trait is due to generations of selective marriage to produce powerful elves with more than one elemental strength. While they usually have good relationships with vampires, the Sylphs did not become endeared to the crown until Damien Caedis fostered at Briarlight when he was a boy. Their relationship was further strengthened when Damien sent Ayden and Selene, his child and his own foster respectively, to Briarlight.  
> Their words are "The Peaks of Valor". Recent members include:  
> Fiona Sylph, Lady of Briarlight and Governor of Briar. She is Clan Head.  
> Arion Sylph, heir to Briarlight and Suzerain of the realm.  
> Persephone Sylph (née Flowerfield), wife of Arion.  
> Lazuli Sylph, daughter of Arion and Persephone. She is 4.


	11. The Capital City

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so, the twain shall meet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The moment we've been waiting for! 1. Quill finally gets his own full chapter and 2. The protagonist meets the deuteragonist. I'm really excited to write their relationship, but I've got to hold myself back since these are just their first interactions. All in due time. Ayden’s also the world’s greatest PR agent.  
> Also, the Redfyre Palace looks similar to Cair Paraval from Narnia. The rest of the city exists around and below it. This cool painting on DeviantArt is pretty much how I imagined it looking https://www.deviantart.com/power-and-chaos/art/Cair-Paravel-590594021

Quill Lycan  
The Ironhill, 28 War

***

Quill looked out of the vehicle’s window as they entered the capital through the south. Brightly-colored automobiles moved alongside dark streetcars. The buildings rose high above them, electrical powerlines stringing many of them together. A large river meandered through the city. Quill admired the many bridges that stretched over its length. 

It was daytime now, but Quill suspected that the streetlamps would light up the Ironhill come nightfall. Smartly-dressed people walked briskly along concrete paths. Many of them stopped to watch as their vehicles sped past. The noises from the traffic and the people were like a thrumming heartbeat. It was so different from the quietness of Lunares.

Their security detail had been increased once they crossed into the city. The banners of the crown streamed behind their procession. Whichever streets they rode on had been cordoned off, but masses of people stood on the sides. Guards dotted their paths with rifles at the ready, sitting atop armored horses. Quill could hear bells ringing from the massive Iron Cathedral. 

Most surprising, however, were the Lycan banners that were waved alongside the crown’s and the flag of Eurydice. Seeing his family’s crest flying in Scarwood Hold was not surprising – seeing them in the Ironhill was downright bizarre. He wondered what cause the city had for bearing his clan’s mark. 

“I hadn’t realized that our arrival would be so … public,” Quill said, watching the people. 

Theron sat next to him, also observing their surroundings. “The kingdom should know which clan is responsible for the peace. I imagine the crown is quelling dissent about your marriage before it can arise. There are eyes all over the Ironhill,” he warned, “mind how you carry yourself.”

It made sense, Quill supposed. He gazed at various faces as they passed - some curious, others hopeful, more than a few displeased. Luna had been placed in another vehicle, and so he had spent the majority of the drive from Stonerose with his father. That, combined with the noise of the city, did miracles for his nerves. 

The Iron Wall stood proudly in the center of the Ironhill, protecting the microcity within its confines. Their parade was granted entrance beyond the wall. The river flowed through the Iron City as well, separating the Redfyre Palace from the neighboring districts. 

So, this was to be his prison. _Will I ever get used to the feeling of being watched?_

The Palace was in view of all sides of the Ironhill. It could see everyone; everyone could see it. Even Beowulf Tower was some distance away from the rest of Lunares. The great Hill of Iron towered over the landscape, the buildings comprising the Palace sprawled across it. Quill’s knowledge of the Palace’s structures was limited, but he supposed that he would come to know them quite well. Assuming he wasn’t confined to an area. 

Gilded gates gave way to the procession. Quill felt his nerves rise as their vehicles drove across the bridge leading into the restricted Palace. They lined up neatly near the steps leading into the main building. There were guards everywhere he looked. Fewer people gathered outside the gates, but it was still more than he anticipated. Quill didn’t know how to react to them. 

Quill’s door was opened from the outside, and he stepped out gingerly. The Ironhill was cool, with a gentle bite to the wind, but it was still only at transition between autumn and winter. By this time, the Annex would be experiencing moderate snowfall. Despite the lower temperature, he scarcely needed his thick coat. As if reading his mind, an attendant offered to take it. Quill gave the garment up with little protest when he saw his father do the same. 

They were escorted through the many hallways of the Palace. It was quite similar to Living Stone, both bearing high ceilings, elegant furnishings, and exquisite artworks. The Caedis banners were interspersed with the sigil of the crown. Even here, there were guards. Quill took his eyes off of them as they approached two large, golden doors. They were pried open, and Quill swallowed as they entered what was undoubtedly the throne room.

The Red Throne sat upon a raised dais, looming over its subjects. Seeing the Red Throne in-person was an experience. Quill gazed in amazement at the tall, translucent gold casing fanning out around the seat. The throne’s famous flames blazed within their cage. The unending fires had been encased in hollow gold using alchemy and a Philosopher’s Stone, Quill remembered. 

He had always wanted to see it, though sitting it had never been in his plans. Quill wondered if one could feel the heat of the flames when they touched the throne. 

“I am glad to meet you again, Lord Lycan, on more pleasant affairs.” 

Quill regarded the person that had spoken. It was one of the men they’d met at Lupus Crossing. Arion Sylph, the Suzerain. He wore traditional Briarean attire in greens and blues, looking completely at ease. His smile was warm and welcoming. 

Theron Lycan dipped his head. “And I you, Lord Suzerain.” 

Lord Sylph turned to Quill. “Did you find safe passage on your journeys from the Annex?” 

“Yes,” Quill answered, “Lady Livingstone treated us well. Thank you for your concern, my lord.” 

The arrival of the Sovereign was announced in short time. Many important-looking people filled the seats on the sides of the room. Arion occupied the seat nearest the throne. The blond man that had accompanied the Suzerain to Lupus Crossing confidently took the next nearest. A dark-haired vampire and an older elven woman followed after them. 

The Lycans and their retinue remained standing in the center once everyone was seated. A chamberlain stepped out from a door to the side, and the room grew quiet in anticipation. 

“It is with great pleasure that I present,” they said proudly, “His Majesty Ayden Caedis I, Sovereign Ruler of the Kingdom of Eurydice, Head of the Caedis Clan and Governor of Sanguis.” 

A tall man walked out, adorned in black and gold. A crown of canary diamonds glinted in his black locks, and the large sword at his side was impressive to behold. He approached the dais with calm and measured steps. Sitting regally on his throne of gold and red flames, Sovereign Ayden Caedis looked every inch the blood of the clan that had ruled Eurydice for over three centuries. 

_Oh. Wow._ He was taken aback. The Sovereign was more attractive than he had expected. Quill subtly bit his lip as those red eyes focused on his father. 

“Theron Lycan,” Sovereign Ayden said, “it is good to put a face to the name I have heard so frequently these last few months.” His deep voice held light Briarean undertones. Quill thought it sounded quite nice. 

“Your Majesty,” Theron said respectfully, “it was my duty to aid the crown in reunifying the kingdom. The Wolffs were traitors to the realm. The Annex rejoices at its return to peace, and to Eurydice.” 

Ayden rested his arms on the sides of the throne. “It was through Silas Wolff’s invasion that the war began. I thank your clan for their part in the restoration of the kingdom. On my authority, the Lycan Clan shall be granted full access to Westedge. All of the Wolff’s holdings, incomes, and titles are yours. You may see to them as befits a Great Clan.” 

“As you command, Your Majesty.” Theron replied in solemn acceptance. 

Quill rolled his eyes internally. His father had already helped himself to Scarwood Hold. The rest of the Wolff’s holdings, incomes, and titles would be the cherries on top of an already decadent cake. 

Ayden turned to where the Livingstones were seated. “It is always a pleasure to have you, Lady Livingstone. The crown has not forgotten Coven’s service throughout the war. Delivering the Lycans to the Ironhill is much appreciated.” 

His red gaze returned to the Lycans. “Now to other matters. May Quill Lycan step forward?” 

Quill steeled his nerves, and presented himself as gracefully as he could. While Theron had trained Lorelei and Ezra to be clan leaders, Celestina had schooled him in the ways of the dutiful spouse. Quill looked straight ahead – he was sure that one glance at his father would destroy his composure. 

“I have heard great tales of your wisdom and valor, Your Majesty,” Quill said, bowing deeply. “It is my hope that you find me suitable to serve at your side.” 

His intended’s eyes roved over him. Quill couldn’t read his expression. He’d need to learn to better read people if he had any hopes of surviving in this city. Finally, Ayden nodded. Quill exhaled in relief.

“It shall be an honor to join our clans,” Ayden said, rising. “The Palace will soon be yours, Lord Quill. I am sure your presence will be a delight to the realm.” 

Quill bowed once more. He returned to his father’s side as the monarch addressed his court. Theron didn’t look beyond enraged, so Quill assumed that he had performed adequately. He looked around, feeling a little out of place as the elaborate attire of the courtiers outshined his relatively simple Annexian clothes. 

“The joining of clans Caedis and Lycan shall mark a new page in Eurydice’s history,” Ayden said, “one of unity, and acceptance. A world where our children will know peace. I welcome the Lycans to the Ironhill.” 

It wasn’t long before the people gathered in the throne room were dismissed. The Livingstones were ushered to their quarters. Quill hoped to find Orion sometime soon. It would be nice to have at least one friend with him, even if it was only for a little while. 

Quill watched as the Sovereign left the throne and engaged with his father. He hovered on the side-lines, content with studying his surroundings. _How much freedom will I have here?_ he thought. 

“Please escort the Lycans to their apartments,” the Sovereign said. “I should like to speak with Lord Quill.”

Theron looked a little surprised, almost like he wanted to argue. Quill felt a flash of amusement as he realized that his father was not accustomed to being dismissed, especially in favour of another Lycan. The time he’d spent leading the Annex since he deposed the Wolffs had certainly gotten to him. 

Quill put on his most proper smile as his people left the throne room. There were guards here, too, though he would have felt more at ease with the ones from his region. Ayden’s red eyes and sharp fangs set him on edge. His mind idly considered how his werewolf abilities would compare to the Sovereign’s vampiric ones. 

“Care to take a walk?” Ayden asked. 

_Whatever the Viper demands._ “As His Majesty commands.”

Quill’s response was met with a dry look. “It wasn’t a command. It was an invitation. You can turn it down, if you would rather return to the apartments.” 

“It would be a pleasure to accompany you. Your Majesty.” He wondered what else he’d be allowed to turn down. 

Ayden extended an arm, and Quill took it obediently. Up close, Quill could see just how tall and handsome he was. Black hair fell softly around the Sovereign’s face, red eyes standing out against his pale skin. His arm felt quite muscular – Quill knew he was a force to be reckoned with on the battlefield. It likely took a fair amount of strength to swing his longsword.

Razor sharp fangs flashed briefly whenever Ayden spoke. Quill wanted to ask if vampires ever sliced themselves on their fangs, but refrained. He’d certainly injured himself with his own canines during his Transformations as a child. Even then, he’d only had to deal with them for a night. Quill had much to learn about vampires, if he was going to spend his life surrounded by them. Perhaps he could increase the number of werewolf attendants…

Together, they strolled down the intricate hallways of the Palace. Many people were running about, though they would bow or curtsy whenever they walked past. _There really are eyes everywhere._ Quill was spared from finding a conversation topic as they rounded a corner lined with portraits. 

“I trust you found the Covenese hosts to your liking,” Ayden said, inclining his head. 

Quill nodded, before remembering that most people preferred words. “Indeed. Lady Livingstone is very kind, although Coven is quite different from the Annex.” 

Ayden gave him a vague smile. “I imagine it would be, though I have yet to hear someone describe its Governor as ‘kind’.” 

They continued like this for a time. Ayden would ask questions, and Quill would respond as was befitting a future Potentate. At least, he hoped his responses were acceptable. _Maybe if I displease him, I’ll be returned to the Tower,_ Quill thought with a faint laugh. 

“Did something amuse you?” the man at his side asked. Nothing escaped the Viper, it seemed. 

“I was just thinking, Your Majesty,” Quill said, “about the Ironhill. I greatly enjoyed hunting in Lunares, but I saw few forests on the way.” 

“The nearest woods are north of the capital. Perhaps we could venture there, in time.” 

_In time? Is that a cipher for how long it takes you to secure the Annex? Or is it only once I’ve proven my loyalty to the crown?_

Quill smiled pleasantly. “As you say.” 

They came to a stop outside of two closed doors. Quill looked up in question, but the vampire only motioned for them to be opened. Ayden stepped out onto a balcony, leaving Quill no choice but to follow. 

He blinked with surprise as they faced the city. Despite the limited access to the Iron City, there was still a sizable gathering of people. An excited chatter rose from them when they saw their Sovereign. Many turned to Quill as well. There was a brief lull, before the people realized that Quill was likely the aspiring Potentate whose banners flew in the city. 

Quill subconsciously tightened his grip on Ayden. “Were they waiting for you?” he asked. He’d meant to say ‘me’, but opted out at the last moment. 

“They want to see their new Potentate,” Ayden replied. “It’s not often that a werewolf finds themselves at the Sovereign’s side. You give them hope for a better future.” He waved out to his people, earning triumphant cheers and shouts. 

“So, this wasn’t just a simple walk,” Quill said. “Will all of our conversations end with me waving on a balcony?”

Quill imitated Ayden after a brief hesitation, politely addressing the crowd. The response to him was positive. A small smile graced his lips at their enthusiastic reaction. Just how much effort had the crown invested into promoting his family name? 

Ayden raised a dark eyebrow. “There are many balconies in the Palace. It wouldn’t be too difficult, though I cannot promise a new one each time. Or such a receptive audience.” 

That drew a laugh from Quill. He felt a bit of tension leave, even with so many eyes on him. “The Palace is highly visible. I’m sure someone will look up eventually.” 

They left the balcony, the noise of the Ironhill dimming once the doors were shut. The Sovereign was not what he had imagined. Then again, this was only their first meeting. Many important Eurydicean nobles were likely flooding into the city. If there was any time for him to bare his fangs, it would be when they were gone. _Whatever the Viper demands._

“What else are you going to show me on our little walk, Your Majesty?” Quill asked, allowing his amusement to show in his voice. Their exchanges had been pleasant so far. He hoped that he wasn’t overstepping.

“What would you like to see, Quill?” Ayden blinked. “Might I call you Quill?”

The Lycan shrugged. “Call me whatever you’d like.” 

“Surely not _whatever_ I’d like.” 

Quill gave a genuine smile. “No, I suppose not.” He felt himself grow a little bold. “Might I call you Ayden in exchange?” 

“It’s as good a name as any,” Ayden laughed. It was a nice sound. In the throne room, Quill had been a little intimidated by the man he was meant to marry. The Sovereign felt less imposing now. It was too soon to say, but perhaps they might even be friends once they’d grown more comfortable with each other. 

“You will be introduced to the Masters soon, I should think, though not on this ‘little walk’,” Ayden mused. “Hyperion Tydus - the Master of Defense - was recently in Lupus Crossing. Did you get a chance to meet him?”

His red eyes glinted in amusement. Quill wasn’t sure what was particularly amusing about the haughty blond man that had glared daggers at him from his horse. Gods, that man had been a prick. He fought back a grimace as he formulated a response. 

“Yes, I did. Lord Hyperion was rather … observant. Quite interested in the happenings about Lupus Crossing. He certainly seemed eager to replace the Insurgent banner with the crown.” 

Ayden’s gaze sharpened. “Do you disagree with its removal?”

 _Shit_. “N-no, Your Majesty. I spoke out of turn. It was the flag of a traitor – a symbol of the continued Insurgency. The Annex is loyal to the Red Throne now that my family has sworn fealty to you.” 

“See to it that it remains that way.” 

_Oh, no._ The friendly atmosphere grew cold. Quill didn’t know how to fix it. Would his slight be enough to jeopardize their alliance? Reservations aside, he did not want to return to the Tower if it meant the continuation of the war. 

His eyes roamed wildly, looking for something to say. The longer the silence stretched, the harder it would be to return to their previous state. How did one hold the attention of the man with an entire continent at his disposal? 

“You mentioned hunting earlier,” Ayden said, eyes thoughtful. “It seems you enjoy the outdoors.” 

“Very much so, Your Majesty.” Quill wasn’t sure if the offer to call him by his first name was still in effect. He played it safe, sticking to the royal honorific. 

“The gardens are truly spectacular. Come spring, there will be many new blooms. It isn’t a forest, but I’m sure you’ll find it beautiful all the same. It boasts flora from all seven regions of Eurydice.” 

Quill nodded. This seemed like a neutral topic. “Are there any moonflowers?” 

“There may be a bush or two, but I make no claims as to its prominence. My apologies.” 

“That’s alright. The seven regions provide much ground to cover.” 

Without moonflowers, Quill wondered how his monthly Transformation would go. They were the most essential ingredient in making moonpotion, the elixir that relieved many of the more unpleasant effects of the change. His Transformations were not usually too difficult, but he imagined that the stress of being in the Ironhill would impact his next one. 

Ayden glanced down at him for a moment, before shaking his head. He seemed to have forgiven Quill’s comment about the Insurgent banner, as a small smile graced his lips. 

“Spring also brings with it the Celestial Festival. I regret to say that the celebrations in the Ironhill are pale in comparison to any major city in Sanguis, especially Redmouth.” 

“Perhaps,” Quill said tentatively, “the Cyran Tourney can be reinstated as well. I’ve always wanted to attend one.” 

“All in due time, Quill.” 

The use of his given name was a good sign, at least. They continued this dance for some time, until Ayden deemed it fit for them to part. A burly guard escorted him to the apartments where the noble guests were permitted to stay. Quill was glad to be out of the main part of the Palace. 

Everyone wore such closely-guarded masks. Quill was vulnerable, walking about without one. His skills at blending in were useless now that he stood beside the most powerful person in Eurydice. He knew that he wasn’t visible behind the walls of his chambers, but even here he felt like he was being watched. 

He glanced out of a window, looking down at the Iron City. People still milled about; the vehicles were now able to move freely. Quill saw a handful of horse-drawn carriages, their rides outfitted primly. He could still hear the quiet thrumming of the city. 

“Beware the capital city,” he muttered to himself, “for the Hill has eyes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spotlight: Festivities 
> 
> Celestial Festival: This is a celebration held every year on the anniversary of Sovereign Celeste Caedis’ coronation. It involves food, drink, music, and merrymaking. Many villages, towns, and cities will often have their own take on the Festival. It is said that one must experience a Celestial Festival in Sanguis or the Ironhill at least once in their life, although this is not necessarily feasible for people that are unable to travel to those places.
> 
> Cyran Tourney: Every fourth Celestial Festival, the Cyran Tourney takes place. It is in honor of Cyrus Goldenbriar, Celeste’s Potentate. Its location changes every time, and people travel all over Eurydice to either watch or participate. Those who win and/or enchant the crowd can gain riches and fame. The years where the tourney takes place in a major city are often the most popular. Celeste herself won the first Cyran Tourney in Haguecourt, and presented her husband with a golden crown of flowers. It is now tradition for the victor to honor a person in the crowd with a gift. The second tourney occurred four years later, after the birth of the Heir Apparent. It then became custom to host it every four years. The Cyran Tourney irregularly occurred during the Gray Era, and was halted in the War Era.


	12. Little Puppy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reyna's long day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was under the impression that the semester was over, but my professors keep assigning things. What happened to #coronacation?  
> Also, I recently watched Interview with the Vampire. Definitely would recommend. I'll be adding Lestat to my collection of blonde assholes.

Reyna Tydus  
The Ironhill, 28 War

***

“Rise and shine, gorgeous.” 

Reyna blinked at the sudden light in the room, pulling the heavy quilt over her head. More fluttering about her suite prompted her to sit up. She glared daggers of ice at whoever had disturbed her slumber. Very few had permission to waltz into the Master of Intelligence’s solar.

“You’re not usually still asleep at this hour,” Seraphina said. She had been the one to draw the curtains. A cheeky smile graced her gentle face. 

Reyna exhaled when she saw the other vampire. Seraphina’s pale blonde hair cascaded past her back, falling in loose ringlets. Her gown was a soft pink, giving her a sweet appearance. Gray eyes shined brightly, though Reyna knew they belied viciousness and a penchant for torture. 

“I’ve been busy,” Reyna responded, observing herself in the large mirror visible from her bed. Her black hair looked a mess. She ran her hands through the tresses in irritation.

“How hard our lady works,” drawled Chione, the Port Levan accent rolling off her tongue. The siren-elf hybrid’s opalescent scales accentuated her brown skin. Chione’s black hair was pinned into a neat bun. As ever, her dark makeup was strong and impeccably applied. 

Chione removed a comb from Reyna’s dresser, beckoning her to the seat in front of the mirror. Reyna moved to do so, pausing only to have Seraphina drape a red robe across her shoulders. She quickly tied the ribbons closed in a precise bow. Reyna crossed her legs once seated, allowing Chione to languidly glide the comb through her hair. 

“Someone, bring me my bloodwine,” Reyna muttered. She relaxed against Chione’s well-practiced ministrations.

Cassius, a vampire-commonfolk hybrid, did as the spymaster bid. He extracted a container of the deep red liquid from her special cabinet, pouring a tall glass of the chilled vampiric wine. His hair was pulled into its usual loose ponytail, several brown locks framing his angular face. Cassius raised a sculpted eyebrow at Reyna as she drank. 

“It’s a bit early in the day for wine,” Cassius said. Seraphina eagerly nodded her agreement, seating herself on Reyna’s vanity. The top of her bosom peeked out from the dress’ sheer bodice as she swung her legs. 

“Oh, so now it’s early?” Reyna replied, tapping the glass with her nails. “A moment ago, I was accused of sleeping in.” 

Seraphina grinned, her fangs flashing brightly. She crawled into Reyna’s lap, nuzzling the Master’s cheek. Chione clicked in frustration as the blonde’s antics interrupted her poised strokes through Reyna’s hair, fin-like ears twitching. 

“Don’t be cross, Rey,” Seraphina cooed. “Won’t you forgive me?” 

Reyna exhaled, but allowed her spy to remain. Cassius took up a position near her window, unbothered by the sunlight. His commonfolk blood allowed him the luxury of basking in the sun much longer than a pureblood vampire. Reyna glanced at her other two spies from the mirror, blue eyes calculating. 

“Tell me a story,” Reyna stated idly. She was likely already aware of the information they would provide, but it was always good to hear it from them. It wouldn’t do to leave a stone unturned.

Seraphina rested a finger against her plump lips, looking deep in thought. She made a show of finding the answer to Reyna’s request, gray eyes twinkling. Reyna ran slender fingers through her thick blonde hair, mollified by the theatrics. 

“The Annex is stable,” Seraphina chirped, “though I’ve heard mentions of questionable loyalty to the new lieges. Just whispers, for now. The Lycans might want to look into that. I’d hate for them to lose their shiny new castle.” 

Reyna nodded. Such was the case when an ancient balance of power shifted. Setting up a network in the Annex had not been easy, but she had managed. Her skills as the Sovereign’s spymaster went unparalleled for a reason. If the Lycans were unable to handle their remaining errant vassals, then she might need to step in. Reyna huffed at the thought.

While Theron Lycan worked on installing undeniable allegiance in his new vassals, the crown had dealt with their own whispers in the Ironhill. It was all terribly boring proceedings, though quieting the more vocal detractors to the royal marriage had been an entertaining pastime. 

“Some werewolves have been seen settling in the lands between Lupus Crossing and Homestead,” Cassius said. “Lord Skyreach won’t like that. He was never much fond of them, I’ve heard.” 

“A problem for another day,” Reyna waved dismissively. “Anything from you, Chione?” 

“News of the war’s end has reached the other continents,” Chione said, looking satisfied with her work on Reyna’s head. “Boreas, in particular, seems to be quite attentive.” 

“Noted,” Reyna sighed. The northern continent was the most isolated of Orpheus’ neighbours. It had been a while since the Gold Era, when the kingdom had been a global powerhouse. Boreas’ sudden interest in the affairs of Eurydice was something she would need to follow. Eventually. 

Chione stood before her, smelling of foreign perfumes. She raised a delicate eyebrow at Reyna, dark clothes ruffling as she rested a hand on her hip. Reyna met her dark stare with an icy one. 

“You’re distracted lately, my lady,” Chione said softly. “What ails you?” 

Reyna didn’t bother arguing with the siren-elf. Her attention had been pulled in more directions than she could count since the Sack of Scarwood Hold. The Inner Circle had been focused on the changes that the sudden end to the Werewolf Insurgency had brought. Reyna didn’t even want to think about her brother’s juvenile whining after his return from the west. 

“That little werewolf from the Annex,” Reyna said, baring her sharp fangs. “My life has been a chore since I was made aware of his existence.” 

“You don’t like him very much, do you?” Seraphina joked, smile turning impish. She began braiding Reyna’s freshly combed hair, peering into the mirror as she did so. Seraphina did enjoy admiring herself. 

Reyna shrugged. “I hardly know the man. I’ve never spoken to him.” 

“You might just get your chance,” Cassius said, intently observing something outside of her window. Reyna rose to join him. 

Quill Lycan wandered through the palace grounds, his large guard trailing after him. The werewolf had made himself scarce since his dramatic entrance in the Ironhill, preferring to hide out in the guest apartments. There had been little cause for Reyna to venture down there, but it appeared the gods were smiling down on her this day. She smirked as Quill worked his way towards the gardens.

“Excellent.”

\--- 

Reyna’s intimate knowledge of the Redfyre Palace meant that it took no time for her to locate the young werewolf. He was studying the yellow primroses. Though he wasn’t completely distracted, it was not difficult for her to approach him through the shadows. The guard turned towards her, but he did not move from his post.

“Greetings, Quill Lycan,” Reyna said, voice saccharine. She took great pleasure in his small jump of surprise at her voice. And here she thought werewolves were lauded for their sharp senses. 

Quill looked at her, eyebrows briefly raising in confusion. He soon adopted a friendlier facade, though Reyna could see tension in every move. The Lycan would need to do better than that if he wanted to fool anyone in the capital, let alone the spymaster of the realm. 

“Hello, my lady,” he responded cautiously. “I’m afraid I don’t know your name.” There was no need to ask her how she knew him.

“Reyna Tydus,” she said, “the Master of Intelligence. I apologize for not introducing myself earlier. Alas, there has been much that calls for my attention these days.” 

Quill nodded. “No offense was taken. I’ve been spending more time in the apartments, anyway.” 

She hummed in response, gazing around the gardens. Most of the summertime plants had been moved indoors, leaving their wintertime counterparts. Servants and courtiers walked about, some bowing or curtsying to them as they passed. They all drew a wide berth from the silent guard. 

“Care to take a walk, my lord?” Reyna asked, looking down to the Iron City below. 

Garrison soldiers mingled with the military police as they stalked the streets. The upcoming wedding and coronation had brought much traffic into the capital. Many petty nobles and wealthy gentry had flooded into the Ironhill, all vying for the attention of the crown. The mass of people in the city had done wonders for her networks. They all had some _truly_ interesting stories to tell. 

“I … suppose,” Quill responded, hesitant. 

Reyna smiled, and began walking towards the main building. Quill’s footsteps sounded quietly behind her as he raced to catch up. They did not talk much as Reyna led him through the halls of the Palace. Reyna ushered Quill into a large room, and commanded the guard to stand vigil outside of its doors with a sharp look. 

“Where are we?” Quill asked, seeming a little lost. His golden eyes were slightly narrowed.

“A dressing room.” 

“There are never any straightforward walks in the Palace, are there?” Quill said, more to himself than anything. 

Reyna strolled towards a red chaise, sitting down with a flourish. Three interconnected mirrors stood to the side, a rack bearing multiple fabrics resting nearby. Reyna crossed her legs and leaned back in the cushioned seat. She had been meaning to speak to Quill for some time - get a sense for how he behaved. Politics in his homeland were more straightforward than the capital. The pretence of choosing fabrics for the wedding and coronation was as good as any. 

“No, I can’t say there are,” she said blandly. “Strip.”

“W-what?” Quill blushed fiercely, taking a quick step backwards. Reyna relished in his discomfort. 

“Remove your coat, my lord. We need your measurements. These lovely ladies could approximate, but it would be better if their numbers were exact.” 

At Reyna’s behest, three seamstresses moved into view. They held various measuring devices in their hands. The girls curtsied, before waiting expectantly. Quill looked at all four women nervously, slowly removing his top coat. Reyna’s eyes roved over his slender body impassively.

“Feeling shy, my lord?” she inquired, hiding her amusement. “I can look away, if it please you. To preserve your modesty.”

Quill shook his head slowly. “N-no. It’s fine. You can also call me Quill.” 

Reyna nodded in response. Two seamstresses positioned Quill in front of the mirrors, while the third began fiddling with the different fabrics. The Lycan looked awkward as they closely measured every plane on his body. Reyna brushed her hair back, debating her next moves. 

The doors opened, and all of the room’s occupants looked up as Fiona Sylph fluttered inside. Her ever-present retinue of giggling elves floated close behind her. The seamstresses quickly curtsied at the woman. Reyna resisted rolling her eyes at the elf’s entrance. 

“May I join you?” Fiona said. Her tone left no room for disagreement. 

“Of course,” Reyna replied with a smile. “Quill, allow me to introduce Lady Fiona Sylph – the Governor of Briar.” 

“I had braced myself for the superfluous accolades,” Fiona said dryly. 

“I’m sure Quill can learn all your titles in his own time.” 

Quill bowed respectfully at the stately woman. Fiona’s robes flowed behind her as she took a seat on Reyna’s chaise. The vampire wasn’t surprised that she knew their location. Quill’s guard was quite distinctive. His position outside of the dressing room would have been a clear giveaway as to whom was inside. 

“I’ve heard much about your clan,” Quill said, intrigued. He stood facing them as one seamstress measured the length of his torso.

Fiona sniffed. “Have you? My armies crippled yours with magic. Tell me, what does the Annex think of us?” 

Quill blinked, taken aback at her thorns. “Oh, um. Elemental magic was indeed difficult to counter, but we managed. Your clan’s double affinities are famous.” 

“Bah. Sylphs were originally air-elves, you know. Until some idiot married an earth-elf and their whelp could do both. Then we spent generations trying to recreate what was no doubt a magical accident. Dreadful business, really.” 

“Lord Arion is known to be a master of air and earth. Is that not common in your family?” If possible, Quill looked even more intrigued. Reyna studied her nails, not interested in their conversation on the old bat’s lineage. 

“The double affinity itself is not that rare,” Fiona replied. “None can boast to be perfectly balanced, save my son. I myself favour earth magic.” Lady Sylph seemed to tire as well, as she turned to one of her attendants. “The Ironhill grows cold. All of the people running about the city do not help. Bring us some strong tea.” 

“Bloodwine for me,” Reyna added. If Fiona took offense to Reyna ordering her people about, she did not show it. 

“And a plate of those little cakes I had last time,” Fiona said. “What were they called? Maca-something.” 

“Macarons,” one of her chittering elves supplied. Fiona clicked in agreement. 

“Prepare a second plate, one with sanguinem,” Reyna said. The attendant nodded, and quickly scampered off to the kitchens. Reyna wished Fiona would scamper off as well, but she admitted that the elf’s presence allowed her to subtly study the werewolf. 

“Sanguinem?” Quill questioned.

Reyna gave him a fanged smile. “Traditional food is useless to vampires unless it contains blood. Since we can’t bleed out people in the age of civilization, the sanguinem plant suffices in a pinch.” 

“Yes, yes,” Fiona interrupted. “Vampires drink blood and werewolves transform every month.” She fixed Quill with an investigative gaze. “I assume you’ve spoken to the Sovereign since your arrival?” 

“Yes, my lady,” he replied. “I have been honoured with his presence when he is able. His Majesty is-”

“Wise and valiant. We heard your little spiel.” Fiona motioned for the seamstresses to step aside. “Are you still pure, Quill?”

“Pure?”

“Virginal. Maiden.” 

Reyna raised an eyebrow while the werewolf stuttered. _Lady Fiona certainly isn’t one to mince words,_ she thought. The elven woman seemed unperturbed by the room’s reactions to her rather personal question.

“He’s already a man grown, Lady Fiona,” Reyna said. “I imagine someone would have caught his eye back in the Annex. Or am I incorrect, Quill?” 

“This doesn’t have much to do with clothing…” Quill muttered, though both Masters ignored his quiet admonishing. 

“Purity matters little these days,” Fiona lamented. “Gods know Ayden wasn’t when he was first wed.” 

That drew a quick laugh from Reyna. “Were you there for his deflowering?” she asked. 

Fiona shook her head, though she too laughed. “I know it in my bones. You can’t keep young, unrelated people in the same castle and not expect a bit of fondling here and there. It’d be more surprising if any of my charges _had_ saved their virtue.” 

The attendant arrived then, quickly pouring out two cups of tea. Quill seemed relieved for the change of topic. Reyna took her glass of wine, and idly nibbled on a macaron. The sanguinem fruit gave them a sweet yet metallic flavour, one that most vampires had grown accustomed to. It wasn’t as good as real blood, but it was leagues ahead of the chemical aftertaste that synthetic blood left.

She and Fiona discussed different materials, going back and forth on whether velvet, lace, satin, or silk was more desirable. Quill eventually suggested cotton, an idea that was quickly shot down by the both of them. It wasn’t long before Fiona ordered her attendants out to find better fabrics. Reyna dismissed the seamstresses as well, leaving the Masters alone with the Lycan. 

Fiona’s aged face grew serious. “Do you know why you’re here?” she asked Quill, voice lowered. 

“To be outfitted,” he replied. Reyna smiled sweetly. The Lycan was far too blunt. It could get him killed in this city. Here, everyone hid their true intentions behind riddles and stories. 

“No,” Fiona said, looking far less amused than Reyna felt. “To bring stability to the realm.” 

Quill took a sip of tea, likely stalling for time. “Yes, I’m aware. My lady.” 

“For now, Eurydice rejoices,” Reyna said, choosing that moment to step in. “However, a wedding will not be enough to erase the war. Flying your family’s banners will placate the people only for a time.” 

Quill looked at her with suspicion. “What are you implying?” 

“There are many snakes in the grass.” 

Fiona set her cup of tea down with an audible click. She considered the man before her, as if searching for any faults. If she found any, they went unmentioned. 

“Your actions in the coming months will determine how the nation progresses,” Fiona stated grimly. “Do not misstep, little wolf.”

_Little wolf? He’s more a puppy than a wolf. A little puppy._

The elven attendants returned soon enough, arms laden with the fruits of their labour. Reyna and Fiona resumed their earlier conversation, while Quill remained silent. In the end, they settled on a mix of fabrics. Cotton, unfortunately, did not feature in their list.

***

The four Master’s suites were in the same building, partially removed from the main Palace but connected to it by a covered walkway. They all followed a common layout, though the individual details of each solar would change depending on its occupants. As such, Hyperion’s chambers were decorated in the reds and blacks of their clan. 

Reyna helped herself to her brother’s wine, watching as he paced about the room. He’d dropped a glass earlier - shattering it - and had been restless ever since. Reyna rolled her eyes as Hyperion grew aggravated over such a minor inconvenience. 

“There are at least twenty wine glasses in your suite as we speak,” Reyna said, seating herself.

Hyperion glared at her. “And now there are nineteen.”

“Echolyse, you’re petty,” Reyna muttered, rubbing her temples. Hyperion bristled at her comment. She wasn’t surprised at his agitation. He and Isabelle, their little sister, were two of the prickliest people she’d ever met. 

“It must be nice to have the luxury of tea and cakes,” Hyperion hissed, referencing her earlier liaison with Quill Lycan. “The Master of Intelligence position is clearly the easiest of the four.”

Reyna closed her eyes briefly, lest she rise to his provocation. She sipped Hyperion’s wine instead. Her brother soon moved on to some other issue, disappointed at her lack of reaction. His ice-blue eyes were wild as he flipped through some book or other. 

“I need to return to Starkhall at some point,” he murmured, “to make sure our family name is still strong.” 

“Ares is holding Dragonfyre Keep,” Reyna reminded him.

“I wouldn’t trust Isabelle with the castle, let alone Ares,” Hyperion stated. “They’re both too much like our parents.” 

Lenora and Enoch Tydus, their mother and father, had been a blight on their family name. Lenora was soft-spoken and timid, often agreeing to whichever points were being made to end an argument. Reyna saw her mother’s face each time she looked in a mirror, and it enraged her. Though Lenora was rightfully the Clan Head, she had been content to let her husband rule in her stead. 

Except their father had been a fucking idiot. Enoch was a soft man, fond of music, art, and commonfolk traditions. He’d host lavish gatherings, and was quick to loan crowns to lesser lords and ladies. While Reyna’s appearance favoured her mother, Hyperion resembled their father. By the time Hyperion took over the clan, their family had become the laughingstock of Sanguis. It was her brother’s skills in restoring the Tydus name that caught the Viper’s attention. 

Reyna’s eyes narrowed. “It matters little, in any case. They’re both dead and gone. Our clan isn’t like to return to how it was under their care. I’m sure your absence isn’t catastrophic.” 

“Our clan wouldn’t be where it was, if not for them,” Hyperion complained. “It’s been generations since our family married into the royal Caedis branch. The offshoots in Serpentspire are worthless.” He resumed his pacing, tailcoat fluttering behind him. “Had our parents not been so incompetent, Damien Caedis would not have passed over us in favour of a _Lazarus_ of all clans. Now the bitch is dead, yet someone else has taken her place. That throne should belong to me, not some unknown werewolf.”

“Careful, brother,” Reyna said, bored. She’d heard this tirade many times before. “The Hill has eyes.” 

“As if you don’t own half of them.”

Reyna smiled. “That still leaves the other half. There are too many eyes in the capital right now - too many snakes in the grass. Keep your head down until all of this is over.” 

Hyperion exhaled at her words. He was childish and petulant, but he was also intelligent and patient enough to play the long game. Reyna rose, dropping her used glass off onto his desk. 

“Lady Fiona is old, and won’t be Governor forever,” Reyna said lowly. “Once she passes, Arion will need to return to Briar and do his duties as her heir. That would leave the Suzerain position open. You’d be the obvious choice, unless you decide to keep screaming to the high heavens.” 

“I don’t want to wait for that goblin to die,” Hyperion whined. “Marriage would have been a faster way to the throne. If not for me, then you’d suffice as a substitute. You’re a Master, but that is not enough. I could’ve secured a marriage between you and the Sovereign had you not failed in getting closer to him.” 

Reyna rested a manicured hand on her hip. “I didn’t fail.” 

“Then why are you not wearing a crown as we speak? Why does the serpent still fly in the Palace? _Why does the tower fly, and not the flames?_ ”

“Ayden was selectively receptive.” 

“Ayden? On first-name basis now, are you?” Hyperion sneered. 

Reyna smiled. “Oh, I’m sorry. Does that bother you? Do you want to be part of his clique, too?” Her smile turned mocking. “Should I put in a word, so that poor little Hyperion can come and play with us big children?” 

“I couldn’t care less what you call him.” As usual, Hyperion masked his emotions with aggression. “In any case, Sovereigns have a bit of leeway when it comes to marriages of convenience. I doubt the Lycan boy will hold his attention, green as he is.” 

“I assure you that I’ve already considered that,” Reyna deadpanned, studying her nails. One of them was beginning to chip. She’d need to have Chione or Cassius redo them. It was much better to uproot all possible problems than to concentrate on only one, allowing the others to flourish. 

“I heard the Livingstone caravan was attacked by a group of werewolves on the way from Lupus Crossing,” Hyperion suddenly said. “Were they yours?”

“Please. I’m not a novice. You’d be foolish to think I’d arrange something so transparent.” Reyna had also been informed of their attack. She had been responsible for the delegation, after all. The death of the future Potentate would have put her in quite the uncomfortable spot. The last thing she needed was an investigation. 

Hyperion glared at her flippant tone. “Have you forgotten who placed you in this position, sweet sister?” he asked. 

She met his icy eyes with her identical ones. “Have you forgotten who dealt with our father’s bastards in Stepes, dear brother? Particularly the ones that could threaten your claim to Dragonfyre Keep?” 

They stared defiantly at each other. Hyperion’s secrets were hers as well. There was no use fighting each other. At their core, they shared the same ambition of seeing their family sit the throne. For now, they had a common enemy.

“Have you interacted with him yet?” she asked. 

“Who?” Hyperion had resumed flipping through his book. 

Reyna sighed. “The Potentate.” 

“He’s not Potentate yet,” Hyperion responded hotly. “Not until the coronation.” 

“Which I can’t prevent. Anything happening to him would throw the kingdom back into open rebellion.” 

Reyna made her way towards Hyperion’s door before he could offer up a witty retort. She paused, and threw a reprimanding glance at him. 

“You’re not as stealthy as you think,” she said. “Mind how you speak to the one that has covered your tracks for so many years. It would be a shame if I let something slip. By accident, of course. I can be ever so forgetful.” With that, she continued on her way. The door closed with a quiet echo. 

She shared many of Hyperion’s ambitions, but not all of them. _Which_ Tydus would wear the crown was not fully agreed upon, though Hyperion need not know of Reyna’s own plans. 

Flames were the sigil of the Tydus clan, and hers burned twice as bright as his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spotlight: Tydus Clan  
>   
> The Tydus clan is the second most powerful vampire family in Sanguis. Their seat is the Dragonfyre Keep in Starkhall. One of the most trusted vassal clans, they and the Caedis family have a long history of marriage. In fact, many people assumed that a Tydus would be betrothed to Prince Ayden, including the former Clan Heads. The announcement that Selene Lazarus was chosen came as quite a shock to Lenora and Enoch Tydus, though they hid their surprise well. The Lady of Dragonfyre Keep died shortly after the birth of her fourth child, and the Lord followed soon after his wife. Healers say that his death was a suicide, though some suspect foul play. Hyperion Tydus became Clan Head after both his parents passed.  
> Their words are "Woe to the Conquered". Recent members include:  
> {Lenora Tydus}, former Lady of Dragonfyre Keep and Clan Head. She died during childbirth.  
> {Enoch Tydus}, former Lord of Dragonfyre Keep. He died soon after his wife, under mysterious circumstances.  
> Hyperion Tydus, firstborn child of Lenora and Enoch. Current Lord of Dragonfyre Keep and Clan Head. He is the Master of Defense.  
> Reyna Tydus, second child and current heir. She is the Master of Intelligence.  
> Isabelle Tydus, third child. She is 21.  
> Ares Tydus, fourth child. He is 18.


	13. City Beyond the Wall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you can make it here, you can make it anywhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was my favorite chapter to write so far, so I apologize if it's a bit long. It's just nice to take a break from politics and schemes and describe some good, clean fun. A crisp high-five if you know which city the Ironhill is based off of. Also, another one if you can come up with a good squad name for these four. I've been calling them EsLuCorLu but like, it's a mouthful.  
> Leatherback turtles are god-tier animals and you should definitely go look them up.

Luna Lycan  
The Ironhill, 28 War

***

“It’s called Beowulf Tower, but it’s not really a tower. There’s technically four of them that are connected to each other by the rest of the castle. So, I guess it’s the Four Towers, not the Tower,” Luna said. 

Esme nodded sagely. “That makes sense.” 

It’d been over a fortnight since Luna had set foot in the Ironhill. It was a strange city, full of buildings that rose higher than she could see, bright lights, and constant movement. There were automobiles _everywhere_. Lunares had its fair share of vehicles, but not nearly this much. People here seemed to ride horses for fun, not for necessity. It felt like that magical wonderland from one of Quill’s stories – the one about the city that never slept. 

Stonerose had felt much the same. It looked a bit like the capital, although it was by the sea and not quite as dense. She couldn’t wait to go back to Lunares and tell Viscardi about her adventures. He’d turn as red as a strawberry. No doubt he’d be jealous that she travelled this far east before him, Ezra, or even Lorelei for that matter. 

Luna had met Esmerelda – though she went by Esme – soon after they’d arrived. The princess was cheeky, and very mischievous. They’d gone all around the Redfyre Palace, and Esme had shown her the best ways to sneak food out of the kitchens. They’d also run into Prince Lucien a few times, although he wasn’t as easygoing as his sister. He reminded Luna of Viscardi. Poor Esme. 

The two girls were sat in one of the palace hallways. Many benches lined the carpeted floors, and there were several portraits of serious-looking people on the walls. Esme had been telling her about Serpentspire, and Luna had described Beowulf Tower in response. She’d like to visit Sanguis, too, if she got the chance. Perhaps when she was older, and didn’t have to do what her mother and father told her. 

Both of them looked up as two people approached. One was Sovereign Ayden. He walked regally, with his head held high. His face was creased in irritation, but it softened when he saw Esme. Luna hadn’t yet spoken to the vampire woman at his side. She was very pretty, though the frown on her red lips made her look a little mean. 

“Father, Lady Reyna,” Esme said, waving pleasantly. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you.”

“I saw you a few hours ago,” he responded, smiling. Sovereign Ayden looked at Luna, red eyes inquisitive. “Hello…”

“Luna Lycan,” the vampire woman supplied. 

Luna stared owlishly at her. “How do you know my name?”

“I know many things, Luna.” 

Esme nodded eagerly. “Lady Reyna knows everything that goes on in the Ironhill. She said she’d teach me how she does it one day.” 

“Trying to find your successor already, Reyna?” Sovereign Ayden raised a dark brow at her as he spoke. “You’ve only had this position for a few years.” Lady Reyna matched his expression good-naturedly. 

Luna cocked her head at the Sovereign. He spoke a lot more slowly than the other people she’d encountered so far. She’d been trying to place his accent, but it was hard when her own knowledge of the Eurydicean dialects was limited to the Annex. 

“You don’t sound like you’re from the Ironhill,” Luna finally said, fed up with guessing where the Sovereign was from. 

He blinked in surprise, before addressing Luna. “I’m not. I was born in Redmouth, but I grew up in Briargarden. It’s a nice city.” 

“As nice as Lunares?” Luna asked. 

“Is Lunares nice?” 

Luna thought for a while, before nodding. “I think so. It’s different from here. Quieter. There’s more snow there, too.” 

“There will be snow soon,” Esme chirped. “It’s almost the end of the year.” 

Luna smiled. “Good. I like snow. I like to Shift and run around in it, but mother always yells at me when I do. Quill likes snow, too. And dogs.” 

“Does he?” Ayden said absentmindedly. Luna nodded once more. 

Eventually, Lady Reyna reminded the Sovereign of the task they had been discussing before they’d stopped for a chat. Esme waved them off as they continued on their way. She turned to Luna, a twinkle in her blue eyes. 

“They’re probably going to one of father’s royal meetings,” Esme whispered, “which means that no one will be watching us. What do you want to do, Luna?” 

The werewolf placed a finger against her chin as she deliberated, but she drew a blank. They’d already explored a lot of the Palace, and she wasn’t particularly interested in the gardens. She could go see what Quill was doing, but he was probably spending time with their father or Orion. Oh! 

“Have you met Corvus Livingstone?” Luna asked, thinking of the young mage they’d travelled with from Stonerose. Getting him to talk to her was like trying to mount a difficult mare, but Luna was nothing if not persistent. Once she found a topic he liked – usually something relating to animals – he became much friendlier. 

Esme wrinkled her nose. “A few times, yes. He’s been to the Palace once or twice. I wouldn’t go so far as to call us friends or anything.” 

“I saw him a while back, near the library. Perhaps he’ll want company.” Luna rose, pulling Esme up with her. They made their way towards the library, though Luna didn’t need Esme to guide her. She’d followed Quill there often enough that she could probably find it in her sleep. 

As expected, Corvus was still in the library. He’d been sequestered in a little alcove, but Luna had managed to follow his trail and track him down. She smirked triumphantly when she found him nestled behind a large tome. _Quill would be proud,_ she thought. 

Corvus looked up, bowing when he saw Esme. She curtsied in response. Luna always forgot to curtsey to people, much to Celestina’s chagrin. It was hard to remember to do it when the only ones she saw were her family, the castle stewards, and the townspeople. The womanly arts had never been her favourite. 

“How may I help you, Your Highness?” Corvus asked quietly. He was very quiet and polite, the opposite of Luna. The opposite of Viscardi, too. She wondered if her mother would like him. 

Esme shrugged. “Esme’s fine. Luna was looking for you.” 

Corvus turned to Luna expectantly. She racked her brains, thinking of a reason that wouldn’t result in him asking them to leave him alone. Orion had tasked her with befriending his brother, and she was going to keep her word. 

“We were going to watch some birds,” Luna said smoothly. She waved her hands behind her back, praying that Esme wouldn't question her. “Esme said there were many types around the Iron City. Do you want to come with us?” 

Corvus looked between his book and the girls, before sighing. He nodded slowly, and rose from his little nest. His wavy black hair fluttered as he moved. _He’s much like a bird himself,_ Luna thought with amusement. 

“We can do other things in the Iron City, too,” Esme said, leading the way out of library. Luna sighed in relief as her friend played along. “My handmaidens have told me many fine tales from the city. If we wanted,” Esme’s blue eyes grew playful, “I could sneak us past the Iron Wall and into the rest of the Ironhill.” 

Luna nodded at the same time Corvus shook his head. He frowned at the both of them. “Leaving the Palace is troublesome enough. I don’t think we should go beyond the wall,” he said. 

“Who’s going beyond the wall?” someone asked. 

They all shifted as Prince Lucien walked around the corner. His red eyes narrowed in suspicion when he saw the three of them. Corvus and Luna both looked to Esme, hoping she could pacify her moody twin. The princess rested her hands on her hips, puffing her chest out.

“We are,” she said proudly. “I’ll allow you to come, too, if you keep quiet and don’t tell anyone.” 

Lucien raised a dark eyebrow at her. “Why would I want to go with you?” 

“Fine then,” Esme sniffed. “Go make cow eyes at Mia instead. I know you’re dying to, Lucy. She won’t even notice you.” 

Lucien’s caramel skin turned a fierce red. He stammered out several sentences, but Luna couldn’t quite tell what he was trying to say. Corvus looked like he wanted to be elsewhere, though he didn’t dare risk slighting both the prince and princess by leaving. 

“Who is Mia?” Luna asked. 

“No one,” Lucien hissed. 

“Twins can read each other’s minds, you know,” Esme joked. “Lucien is thinking of long red hair, big brown eyes, and millions of freckles.” She blew several kisses at him, before clutching her arms and swooning. She grinned when her brother stomped his feet in agitation. 

“Are we going to see the birds or not?” Corvus inquired, shifting uncomfortably. 

“Oh, right,” Esme said, grabbing Lucien and dragging him along. “Come on, all of you. I found a passage out of the Palace. No one will even know we’re gone.” She began to walk quickly through the hallways, taking many twists and turns. They all scrambled to keep up with her erratic path.

“I suppose someone has to keep an eye on you,” Lucien muttered. 

Luna rolled her eyes. “Just admit that you don’t want to be by yourself,” she said to him.

He bared his fangs at her comment, hissing. Luna Shifted and growled back at him, showing her werewolf canines as well. She wasn’t afraid of him, prince or not. Lycans weren’t timid, and a tower could easily crush a snake. Lucien backed down, and Luna flicked her canid ears in satisfaction before reverting to her normal state.

Esme led them down several flights of stairs, until they eventually reached a stone door. She pushed it open quietly, tiptoeing into a dark and cavernous room. Several large statues stood against the walls; some smiling, others not so pleasant. Luna looked around, intrigued by all of their faces. 

“Why are we in the crypt, Esme?” Lucien asked. He was slightly jittery, avoiding the walls. 

Esme smirked back at them, shushing him. Deeper into the crypt they went, down, down, down. Luna trusted Esme, but even she wasn’t sure if the vampire knew where they were going. Corvus pulled out a small conduit, and a gentle glow emanated from it. Luna hovered close to him, using his light to guide her steps. 

She bumped into Esme as the princess suddenly stopped by a tunnel. She gestured for them to follow her, and they were soon walking through a narrow cave. Their footsteps echoed hollowly. Luna felt many vines and shade plants brush against her. They were slimy and cold.

“Most of the Palace is visible from below the Hill of Iron,” Esme said, “but not all of it. The crypt goes all the way down, deep into the Hill. I don’t know where it ends, but,” sunlight flashed, and Luna blinked as she looked up and found herself staring back at the huge Iron Wall, “I do know that it has several stops along the way. Welcome to the city beyond the wall.” 

“How’d you even find that path?” Lucien gaped. He raised a hand, shielding himself from the sun. 

Esme flashed her fangs. “I know many things.” 

Many people walked around rapidly, few stopping to pay them any mind. People shouted in the streets while their vehicles honked loudly. A nearby tram shook the earth as it passed. Luna felt dizzy, both from excitement and the sudden shift from the silent darkness of the tunnels. She looked around, taking in all the sights and sounds of the city. It was chaotic, but it wasn’t the worst thing ever. 

Corvus crossed his arms with a sigh. “There were never any birds, were there?” he stated blandly. Esme gave him an apologetic pat on the shoulders as she shook her head. 

“Who cares about birds?” Lucien said, frowning. “Esme and I are going to need some coats, or something. Preferably with sunshade. I don’t want to be recognized out here.” 

“There’s a market up ahead,” Esme said, pointing east. “I’ve got come crowns on me. We could get something for all four of us.” Once again, Esme led the way as they fell in step behind her. 

In Lunares, Luna was used to encountering other werewolves, commonfolk, or their hybrids. The Ironhill, however, held people of so many different races. They passed several sirens selling fish from a stand, a vampire and a werewolf arguing over the largest one. Two well-dressed elven men walked arm-in-arm, discussing something in the clipped Ironhill accent. An older commonfolk woman turned her nose up at them from her gilded carriage.

Luna saw a female mage doing magic tricks near the open square, creating vivid images out of thin air. The images floated around the crowd, before she inhaled sharply and they all rushed into her mouth. The onlookers clapped while her werewolf assistant collected donations from them. Another person, a man with blue skin and dark horns, played an eerie song on a large horn. Luna wasn’t sure what race he was, but he didn’t look like any of the six she was aware of. She stopped to watch him, but was softly nudged along by Corvus. 

They entered a small store with several fabrics hanging from the windows. It was quiet, and fairly empty. Several items lined the dark wooden shelves. Esme strode confidently to where the storekeeper sat. 

“Hello!” the storekeeper - a bright-eyed werewolf - said. “My name is Jasmine. Do you require any assistance?” 

“I’ve got this,” Esme whispered. She leaned against the front desk, face solemn. “Four of your finest cloaks, please,” she said. Luna nodded at the storekeeper in agreement. Lucien sighed. 

Jasmine cocked her head at them. She was a bit older than Corvus, though her hands were already worn from years of work. She smiled, eyebrows raised in amusement. 

“Interesting group you have here,” Jasmine said, pulling out a few smaller cloaks from the shelves behind her. “How do two vampires come across a werewolf girl and,” she studied Corvus for a moment, “a commonfolk boy.” 

“Mage,” Corvus corrected. Jasmine hummed in apology. 

“We’re … siblings,” Esme said slowly. Lucien sighed even louder. Luna lightly shoved him. 

“Siblings?” Jasmine laughed, smoothing out the cloaks. 

“Yes, ma’am. He’s adopted, though.” Esme gestured at Lucien. 

Jasmine’s smile grew knowing. “I see. Shouldn’t you four be in school?” 

Esme floundered, unsure of how to react. She turned to the three of them for support, but they couldn’t offer much help. The nobility often hired governesses and private tutors to teach their children. It was more common for the lowborn and gentry to receive their education from schools. As such, none of them had had much experience with the type of education that was becoming very popular in Eurydice. 

_She must think we’re some merchant’s children, and that we’re cutting class,_ Luna panicked. She wished she knew more about commoners. She didn’t want to risk exposing them by saying the wrong thing. 

“Relax, all of you,” Jasmine giggled. “Your secret’s safe with me. I won’t haul you over to the headmistress. Gods know I never liked sitting in those chairs myself.” She patted the neatly folded cloaks. “That’ll be eight crowns.” 

Esme fished out the money, proudly slapping a fifty-crown note before Jasmine. She tossed the cloaks at Luna and the boys, donning her own. Jasmine stared at the note in surprise, gaping up at them.

“Pleasure doing business with you, Jas!” Esme boomed, making her way out of the store. Luna waved to the werewolf, following after the princess. Lucien and Corvus trailed behind them at a more languid pace.

Jasmine shook her head as they left. “The rich kids of the Ironhill are something else.” 

\---

Now that they had some measure of disguise, the four of them were free to explore the city. Luna was delighted by all the glitzy establishments. She heard ritzy music coming from a small one tucked in-between two taller buildings. Luna stepped inside the place, admiring the dark furnishings and sneezing at the subtle whiff of smoke. She wiggled to the beat that the band in the front had set. Esme imitated her, Lucien and Corvus watching them with raised eyebrows.

“I’ve never heard this kind of music before,” Luna said. “What’s it called?”

“Jazz,” Esme answered, clapping softly when their song ended. “It’s from Port Levans, I think.”

They soon left the musical place, wandering around. They found themselves in an even older and denser part of town, people living in very close quarters. Luna felt a bit claustrophobic, boxed in by all of the brown brick buildings. Vehicles zoomed past, and Luna made a point to stay on the concrete sidewalks. She didn’t want one of them to strike her.

Esme stopped them by a food stand, ‘Izanagi’s Finest’ painted in bright red. Luna asked about the name idly. A boy with almond-shaped eyes informed her that his parents were the storeowners, and that they had immigrated from Izanagi, on Amaterasu. Luna sometimes forgot that not all of the other continents doubled as countries. It took them many trials to order their food, as none of them had much experience with getting food without going through a castle’s kitchens. 

They eventually left with their bellies full of ‘yakisoba’, as the boy – Satoshi Iwayama – had called it. Their travels took them to a highly populated square. Lucien directed them towards a street full of storefronts, ducking into one that sold harps and lyres. Esme entered one bearing various hats, yelling at all of them to return to this same spot in an hour. 

Luna was left alone with Corvus, who shrugged when she asked where he wanted to go. She sighed, and led them down a row of colourful tent-like structures. A large vampire grinned from one of them, beckoning her closer. A skinnier vampire was perched at his side, smoking a cigar. 

“Hey, little girl,” the big man called, “want to buy some knives?” 

Luna frowned. “I don’t have any money.”

“That’s okay. You can come look at them, anyway.” 

Luna grinned, and began trotting to them. They moved aside, and she began to reach for a thin blade that the skinny vampire offered her. She blinked in surprise when Corvus stopped in front of her, green eyes narrowed. The big vampire returned his look.

“Get away from her,” Corvus said. 

“Stay out of this, kid,” the skinny one hissed. He pulled out a blade different from the one he had meant to give Luna. It had a wicked curve to it.

Corvus’ conduit glowed an ominous green as he channelled magic through the runes carved into it. The big vampire shook his head, and the skinny one backed off. They both muttered something about mages, before retreating into their tent and shooing them away. 

Luna turned to Corvus with a glare. “I wanted to see their knives,” she growled. 

Corvus looked at her impassively. “Those men were dangerous. I didn’t like how they were looking at you.” 

“I could’ve protected myself.” 

“You weren’t doing a very good job of it,” Corvus replied. He softly grabbed her hand, leading them back towards the square. “They were going to do something awful to you. Probably sell you as a pet to someone from Boreas.”

Luna Shifted and flexed her sharpened claws at him. “Werewolves are fierce, you know.” 

“Werewolves aren’t very threatening outside of a full moon.” 

“I would’ve Shifted. Or if I had a bow, I could’ve shot them. Lorelei said she would teach me how to use it.”

Corvus gave her a funny look. “You can’t use a bow in the city.”

“I could in Lunares. If I wanted.”

“This isn’t Lunares.”

Luna sighed, suddenly feeling glum. “No, it isn’t. I don’t like the Ironhill. No wonder Quill didn’t want to come.” She realized how much she had missed home. The excitement of travel was beginning to wear off. 

Esme and Lucien were waiting for them by the square. Esme was animatedly describing a snake vendor she’d found, after she’d grown bored of perusing hats. She waved at them, quickly telling them tales of the reptiles. 

“There was this white python with blue eyes,” Esme gushed. “The seller said it was from Sol. I had half a mind to buy it. Do you want to come and see?” 

Lucien shook his head. “I don’t like snakes,” he muttered. 

“But they’re the sigil of your clan,” Luna said as they began walking in a random direction. The sun was starting to set, and she wanted to go back to the Palace now.

“That doesn’t mean I have to like them,” the prince sniffed. “Do you run into every tower you see?”

Luna opened her mouth, but closed it soon after. “I suppose not.” 

***  
Corvus Livingstone  
The Ironhill, 28 War   
***

“We should take the tram,” Corvus said, watching the street cars. “They can get us into the Iron City. I saw a station up ahead, if we keep following Great Boulevard.” He didn’t feel like walking through Princess Esme’s cave again. There were trams in Stonerose as well, so he had an idea as to how they operated. 

Esme’s snakes sounded interesting. He’d have liked to see them, but the sun was already setting. The streets of large cities were not the place for people their age. He led the way, the younger nobles following after him.

The capital soon lit up with thousands of lights – from vehicles, from streetlamps, from the buildings. It was even noisier at night than in the day. Corvus wished he’d stayed in the library, although he didn’t necessarily dislike the Ironhill. He just preferred to remain indoors.

“The Fair Serpent looks nice,” Lucien said, gazing at the lazily winding river below them. The dark water reflected the lights of the city. Corvus shrugged. It was okay.

“My mother used to bring me out here, every once in a while,” the prince continued, red eyes far away. “We’d watch the buskers and take rides along the water. Father would come with us sometimes, but he was usually doing some royal business or other.” 

Corvus kept pace with him. “I’m sorry about your mother,” he said softly.

Lucien shrugged. “It’s been years. Father’s moved on, since he’s getting married again. Esme, too. It feels like I’m the only one that was sad about her death.” He kicked a pebble out of his way. 

Corvus thought about his own parents. They had been polar opposites – Lyra snappy and sharp-tongued, Cesare mellow and quick to laugh. They had complemented each other, though. His mother actually relaxed when she was with her husband, and she’d often tell him about how his father finally learned responsibility when he became the Lord of Living Stone. Corvus didn’t think she would ever remarry.

They reached the tram station, but Corvus frowned in dismay when he saw the crowded lines. If they waited for their turn, it would be well into the night by the time they reached the Palace. He deliberated asking the royals to use their status to commandeer a seat when Esme pointed to a large ferry on the river. 

“That ferry passes through the Iron City,” she said. “It’ll be faster than the tram.” 

Corvus felt sick at the thought of being on the water. He looked at the Fair Serpent’s murky depths, but shook his head. He wasn’t about to deny the princess.

The next boat would be arriving soon, so the four of them sat by the docks and waited. Corvus paced by the stairs leading down to them, keeping his distance from the river.

“Let’s compare, then,” Corvus heard someone say.

The familiar voice drew his attention. Corvus frowned, and peered into a small alley that was sheltered from view behind the stairs. Four people sat around on the hidden benches – a male siren with dark skin and green scales, a female siren with orange ones, a red-haired male elf, and … Orion.

Corvus’ older brother was laughing, looking completely at ease. He and the elf both generated flames, Orion using his fire rune and the elf using elemental magic. The elf puffed irritably as Orion’s flame grew large and blue, outshining his. 

The male siren stuck a glass object over the elf’s flames, and the female siren placed a similar one over Orion’s. She inhaled smoke from the object, climbed into his brother’s lap, and kissed him. Orion blew out a puff of pink smoke. 

“Oooh, pink,” he grinned. “That’s a new colour. What else can you blow?” His hands wandered across her back, down to her mid-thigh. He fiddled with the hem of her bright skirt, slowly lifting it up to her upper thigh. 

“Damn,” the male siren said, “didn’t you _just_ get done?” 

The elf draped himself across the male siren, releasing lilac smoke. “Fucking stamina.” 

Orion laughed, and opened his mouth to answer. Corvus decided to speak up.

“Orion…?” he said hesitantly. 

“Oh, shit.” His brother coughed sharply, shoving the female siren off of him. He rose, quickly rubbed his eyes, and made his way over to Corvus. 

“Hey, bud,” Orion said with a shaky grin. “W-what’re you doing here?” He leaned against the wall, body partially obscuring his companions. 

Corvus shrugged. “What’re _you_ doing? Who are these people?” He stepped around his brother, observing them.

Orion gently pushed him away. “Oh, uh. Nothing to worry about,” he smiled. “Just some … friends.” 

The elf raised an eyebrow at them. “Yo, Ri,” he drawled, “you know this kid?” 

“Ri?” Corvus asked, looking at Orion. 

“Kid, want some fairymoss?” the male siren asked. 

Corvus shook his head. “I’m fine, thank you.” The siren shrugged, and blew out another colourful plume. The scent was earthy, with vaguely sweet undertones. Corvus felt a little dizzy.

Esme, Lucien, and Luna poked their heads around the corner, too. Their eyes were wide in curiosity. Orion grimaced when he saw them. 

“Hey, Corv,” he said, “Why don’t you take your little friends and go back to the Palace?” 

“You’re here. Why shouldn’t I be?” 

Orion glanced around nervously. “Please. I’ll show you a new rune if you leave, and keep this under wraps.” His brown eyes were pleading. 

Corvus sighed. “Fine. I get to pick the rune.”

Orion gave him a tight smile. “Definitely. Mage’s honour.” 

“Mages have no honour,” the elf guffawed. The female siren chuckled, exhaling with a red haze that matched her bright dreadlocks. 

Corvus turned to leave, beckoning the others to follow. They did, after a few more glances at his brother. He heard the sounds of laughter behind them, and Orion speaking.

“Shut up and give me another hit, idiot. Sirella, get back here. I still want that question answered.” 

Esme looked at Corvus inquisitively. “Who was that?” she asked. 

Corvus stared resolutely ahead at the approaching boat. “Don’t worry about it.”

\---

Corvus sat in their booth, hating the never-ending swaying motion. They’d managed to board the ferry, and he sighed in relief as the Iron Wall grew closer. It wouldn’t be long before they entered the Iron City. The Palace would be easy to reach from there. 

Esme and Lucien sat across from him and Luna. All four of them bore matching faces of exhaustion. Corvus now understood why his mother always complained when governing forced her to visit the capital. It was an exhausting city. 

“My mother has a great white shark,” a haughty voice said, “and all I have is a stupid leatherback turtle.” 

“Turtles aren’t so bad,” a more docile person responded sadly. “I don’t even have a mount yet.”

“Does that look like my problem?” the first person snarled. “The Spear Prince should be riding a shark, like the Spear Queen. The warrior queen.”

Corvus looked up as Prince Caspian and his posse strolled by proudly. His blue hair matched his bright blue scales, and his outfit was prim and expensive-looking. Just when Corvus thought today couldn’t get any worse, the Prince of the Seas decided to take their same ferry. He’d met him a few times, in the overwater side of Coldciff. Corvus sighed. 

Caspian paused by them, eyebrows raising when he recognized Corvus. His sea-green eyes roved impassively over Luna, but widened when he saw Esme and Lucien. 

“What are you doing here?” he sneered. Lucien bristled at his tone. 

Corvus looked at him tiredly. “Keep walking, Caspian,” he said quietly. 

“Or what?” Caspian replied. “Going to cast a spell on me, witch?” 

“You can’t call him that!” Esme exclaimed. 

She stood up angrily, hands resting on her hips. Corvus wanted to disappear. They should’ve just waited for the tram, Corvus lamented. 

Caspian turned his sneer onto Esme. “I’ll call him whatever I want.” He studied the princess, pouting. “My mothers said that you may be Spear Princess one day. You don’t look like much. Can you even breathe underwater?” He frowned in distaste as Luna growled at him. 

“I’m not a siren,” Esme snapped. “Of-course I can’t.” 

“Well, I don’t want to live in the top side of Coldcliff just because of you,” he replied. “Have you even bled yet?”

Esme blushed, and sputtered indignantly. Caspian smirked triumphantly, fluffing out his blue locks. His posse laughed mockingly. 

“Fuck off, Caspian,” Lucien hissed. “You can’t talk to Esme like that. She outranks you.”

“Why not?” Caspian said, studying his opal-coloured nails. “She’s a princess, and I’m a prince. We’re evenly matched.” 

Lucien bared his fangs. “The Tridents aren't _real_ royals. You’re basically just Governors. You only keep those titles because the Red Throne lets you. Siren Citadel is nothing compared to the Redfyre Palace.” 

Caspian’s face contorted in anger. “Show some respect to your elders, you little brats. I’ve swam with sharks, you know. I’ll be the greatest shark tamer in Eurydice. Next time you’re near the Seas, I’ll command them to attack you.” 

“I bet any good shark would bite you,” Luna sassed. 

“Sharks aren’t aggressive to me. They know their prince.” 

Corvus ran a hand through his hair. “Sharks are attracted to testosterone,” he said coolly, “so I suppose you’re never in any real danger when you swim with them.” 

Caspian’s webbed ears flared in rage. One of his lackeys giggled at Corvus’ comment, but quickly stopped when the prince turned on them. He dragged his crew away, muttering about how this wasn’t over. 

The four of them settled down after their departure. Corvus rested his head against the back of his seat, watching the dark water as it reflected little suns from the city. It was late. Their absence would no doubt be noticed by now. His mother would probably ream him for sneaking out once he returned to the apartments. Another thing to look forward to. 

Gods, he was so tired. Esme and Lucien seemed to feel the same, as they curled up against their seats. Luna fell asleep, her head leaning on Corvus’ side. The younger nobles soon followed, but Corvus wasn’t so lucky. 

_We should’ve taken the tram,_ he lamented.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spotlight: Trident Clan 
> 
> The Seas were partially brought into the Kingdom of Eurydice sometime during the late Iron Era, through a mix of conquest and marriage. The Tridents of the Siren Citadel in Coldcliff are the Great Clan of the Seas. Although their seat is in the Southern Sea, they maintain control of those who live in its Northern sister. They also have influence over Sirens in the Mellow and Lesser Sea as well as Port Levans, despite those areas legally belonging to the crown. The Heads of the Trident clan are referred to as Spear King and/or Queen, although they are not formally recognized as Eurydicean royalty and are on the same level as other Great Clans. The Tridents alternated between governing their people from Coldcliff and from New Atlantis in Port Levans. They fully transitioned to the water during the Gray Era, and stayed out of much of the conflict during the War Era. The title of 'General of the Navy' is also given to the Head of the Trident Clan, as Masters of Defense control the crown's ships through them.  
> Their words are "From the Waves We Rose". Recent members include:  
> Tiberia Trident, Lady of Siren Citadel, General of the Navy, Spear Queen and Governor of the Seas. She is the Clan Head.  
> Ariel Trident (née Bluespear), wife of Tiberia, Lady of Siren Citadel, and Spear Princess.  
> Caspian Trident, son of Tiberia and Ariel, and the Spear Prince. He is 16.


	14. Woe to the Conquered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A warm family reunion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want the remade Final Fantasy 7 so bad. Cloud looks gorgeous. I know it seems like I have a thing for blondes but it’s literally just pretty people. Time to go replay Crisis Core again. Can't wait for Sephiroth to kill me for the millionth time.  
> Also, Isabelle drives an early 1920s Chrysler Imperial.

Isabelle Tydus  
The Ironhill, 28 War 

***

Isabelle stepped out of the black vehicle, pulling her long woolen coat around herself with a shiver. The wind had an irritating bite to it. She’d nearly forgotten how cold it could get this far north of Courtmere. She’d barely left southern Ancient, and she already missed it. 

The Iron City’s North Village was dotted with elitist Ironhillers and their equally-wealthy friends. Eurydice’s gentry and upper classes favored the mansions in the upscale neighborhoods surrounding the Redfyre Palace, enjoying the separation from the rest of the Ironhill. Hyperion had bought theirs, a white and black contemporary manor, a few years ago. It was beyond Isabelle why her brother would purchase one, as he was already the lord of a noble castle _and_ had full access to the Palace. 

Isabelle had received an invitation to the royal marriage and coronation while she was still in Courtmere. She’d nearly turned it down, preferring to remain in the city and continue her studies at the Arcane Institute. She’d relented when Ares notified her that he’d be attending, instead choosing to occupy their manor. There was no way she’d be staying in the Palace with Hyperion and Reyna skulking around. 

Ares poked his head out from the second story window, waving enthusiastically. Isabelle smiled back at him. Ares had also been given access to the Palace, but Isabelle had convinced him to join her in the North Village. It had been a while since she’d seen her little brother. Remote calling him via specula wasn’t the same as an in-person conversation. 

She left her vehicle in the circular driveway, and quickly made her way inside. Their maids were running about, having spent the days preparing the manor for her and Ares’ arrival. Isabelle stopped to chat with a few of them. It wasn’t often that she was in the capital. 

“Isabelle! Hey, Isabelle!” Ares called from the top of the winding staircase. He slid down, ignoring Miss Anne’s tuts as she cleaned the balustrade. 

Isabelle broke out into a grin as he tossed himself at her. She hugged him affectionately, her boots clicking against the marble floors as she steadied them. Her brother had grown so much since she’d left to Courtmere. His fluffy red hair was brighter than ever, waving wildly. 

“You’re taller than me now,” she laughed, petting him. “Keep that up, and you’ll pass Hyperion. That’ll piss him off, no doubt.” 

Ares grinned, fangs flashing. He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. Isabelle smiled warmly at her favorite sibling. 

“Your hair’s turning black again,” Ares joked, poking the dark roots of her brown hair. Isabelle sighed and looked at herself in the foyer’s mirror. She’d been so busy with her research the past few months that she’d forgotten to dye it her preferred shade. 

“I’ll deal with that later,” she waved. “How long have you been in the city?” 

“Not long,” Ares answered. “I left Starkhall about a week ago. I’ve been with Miss Anne and her ladies since then.” Ares gestured at the maids as they giggled. 

Isabelle shrugged off her coat, dropping the automobile’s keys on a side table. She sighed and stretched. Her joints popped satisfyingly after so much time spent driving. _Would that those aircrafts the engineers designed were fit for human use,_ she thought wistfully. 

“I’m going to take a bath,” Isabelle said, walking up the ostentatious stairs towards the master suite. It was technically Hyperion’s, but he wasn’t around to tell her what to do. “I’ve been on the road for days. Join me for lunch when I’m done, Ares.” 

After a good soaking, Isabelle changed into a smart blouse and a comfortable pair of trousers. She ran fingers through her damp hair, keeping it out of her eyes. Their cook had prepared a simple meal for her and Ares, knowing that neither of them were particularly fond of extravagant cuisine. 

Isabelle tucked in while her brother chatted excitedly about the events that had occurred in Dragonfyre Keep and the rest of Starkhall. She hummed along every now and then. The Tydus ancestral home was of little interest to her, but she would listen to Ares talk about it for hours if it meant that she could spend time with him. 

“How’s your research been?” Ares eventually asked, nibbling on some candied sanguinem. 

Isabelle shrugged. She’d spent the past two years studying theoretical and applied magic at the Arcane Institute. Her focus had been on how people could utilize magic through technology. Other students sometimes scoffed at her field, claiming that vampires did not belong in the magical realm. ‘Leave magic to the elves and mages and technology to the vampires’, they’d sniff. Yet with the kingdom’s constant industrialization, Isabelle didn’t see why the two disciplines couldn’t be intersected. It was certainly possible - after all, specula were invented from the fusion of alchemy and telecommunications.

“It’s been well,” she said. “I spoke to my professors, and they’ve put in a request for several texts from the Kurama University in Izanagi. Alchemy and elemental magic might be the only types commonplace in Eurydice, but far more exists in other countries. If we can understand how others use theirs, it’ll be no time before magic and machinery share a common core.”

Ares nodded, looking lost. Isabelle flicked a berry at him, cackling when he caught it.

“That reminds me,” she continued, “since we’re in the Ironhill anyway, I may as well use the Palace’s library. I’ll be driving over there today.” 

“I’ll come with,” Ares said. “We can go say hello to Hyperion and Reyna, too.” 

Isabelle gave him a dry smile. “Wonderful. I can’t wait. Come on, then.” 

“Wait,” Ares blinked, “right now?” 

“Yes, right now.” Isabelle cleared their plates, not waiting for the maids. She’d grown used to taking care of her own dishes while in Courtmere. She waved her automobile key, beckoning Ares to follow her. She donned her coat and boots while she waited for him. Once he was also dressed for the cold, they made their way towards the parked vehicle. 

“Nice ride,” Ares whistled as he climbed into her passenger seat. 

“Thanks,” Isabelle grinned as she started the engine. “It’s a new model. Sanguis’ finest. There was a showing in Haguecourt, and I couldn’t resist.” She smirked and slipped a pair of dark shades over her ice-blue eyes. “I put it on Hyperion’s tab. I’m sure he won’t mind.” 

With that, she pulled out of the manor’s gates and sped towards the towering Hill of Iron. 

\---

The last time Isabelle had been at the Palace was when Reyna was appointed as the Master of Intelligence. As such, she immediately headed in the direction of its famous library. Ares trailed behind her, eyes wide in fascination as they passed all of the nobles. She recognized a few, but none of them held her interest long enough to break her stride. 

“What about Hyperion and Reyna?” Ares asked.

“We’re bound to see them eventually,” Isabelle responded, steps quick and sharp. 

Isabelle turned the corner, and felt her heart sink when she saw a head of blonde hair and gray eyes. She’d met this vampire on multiple occasions, and each time was as unpleasant as the last.

“Hi, Isabelle,” Seraphina squealed, waving excitedly. Her dress fluttered as she bounced. 

Isabelle groaned internally. “Seraphina,” she said blandly. If Seraphina was aware of their presence, then so was Reyna. She’d been hoping to make it to the library without meeting either of her older siblings. 

“I thought I recognized you,” Seraphina chirped. “Reyna said to stop by her place as soon as you’re able. That includes you, too, darling.” Ares’ face flushed as bright as his hair when Seraphina addressed him. 

“Sure,” Isabelle deadpanned. “Thanks.” She made to continue on her way, but stopped when Seraphina called out to her. 

“That’s cipher for ‘now’, by the way,” the blonde vampire sang, before winking at Ares and sauntering away. 

Isabelle groaned - externally this time - and instead led them towards the suites that housed the Masters. She idly studied the preparations about the Palace as they walked. People were constantly running about, adjusting and readjusting items as they did so. Even the Iron Cathedral, which was located beyond the Iron Wall, had been cordoned off. The wedding was nearly here, she remembered. 

They soon entered the drawing room that branched out into the four Masters’ suites. Reyna was lounging on one of the seats, a flute of champagne in hand. She looked up at their approach, a sharp smile gracing her face. 

“Isabelle,” she drawled, “Ares. Lovely seeing you two.” 

If Ares had a tail, it would have been wagging. He bounded over to his eldest sister, and eagerly began asking her questions about her day. Isabelle was more reserved, and stiffly took the seat across from Reyna. 

“You look like you swallowed a lemon,” Reyna said to Isabelle, rolling her own ice-blue eyes. She took a dainty sip, movements poised and elegant. 

Hyperion appeared from the doors leading to his suite then, blond hair messy. His ever-present scowl was fixed in place. Isabelle wondered if he was born like that, or if life had twisted him. _Definitely born like that,_ she thought to herself. 

“How nice of you to take a break from skinning kittens, Hyperion,” Isabelle greeted. Reyna snorted from her perch, while Ares looked uncomfortable. 

Hyperion exhaled. “Ah,” he muttered. “Always so clever, my younger sisters. How’ve your little studies been faring, Bella?” 

“Don’t call me Bella,” Isabelle hissed. “It’s Isabelle.” 

Hyperion cracked a mocking smile. “Can’t a brother be concerned about his sister?”

“As if you care.” 

“D-don’t fight!” Ares stammered. “Please? This is the first time we’ve all been together in _forever_. It’s just been me alone, in Starkhall.” His eyes were wide, sad, and pleading. 

His older siblings stared at each other awkwardly. They may all have had their differences, but it was an unspoken rule amongst them that Ares was off-limits. The tension was more suffocating than an old professor’s lecture hall, Isabelle grimaced. 

Reyna smiled perkily. “How has everyone been?” she asked. 

“Great,” Hyperion and Isabelle answered in unison. They glared ice-blue daggers at each other. Reyna’s eyes narrowed, though her smile never dropped. 

“How have your studies been?” she inquired. Hyperion looked irritated as his question was reiterated. 

“Oh, lovely,” Isabelle answered. Her brother looked even more irritated as she dignified Reyna with a response. “Have you destabilized some government yet, Reyna?” 

That smile turned deadly. “Would you like me to?” 

“Come on, guys…” Ares whispered, looking between them. Another silence followed at his chastising. 

Hyperion mussed his hair, frowning. “Gods,” he said, pacing. “Why are we wasting time here?” 

Isabelle sneered at him. “We’re family. Families tend to spend time with each other.” She gave a dry laugh. “Not ours, though. Never ours.” 

Hyperion stopped, and met her gaze. “Perhaps I’ll cease funding your little magical adventures. Make you return to Dragonfyre Keep. Then you can spend all the time you want with family. Would that make you feel better, Bella?” 

She hissed at the nickname, rising angrily. He’d called her that ever since she was a child, when he’d found a book about a commonfolk girl with that name hidden in her room. She’d only been reading it because a handmaiden had recommended it! That nickname had always nettled her. Hyperion was good at nettling her. 

“Lower your fangs, both of you,” Reyna said, standing as well. “I won’t have infighting while you’re in the Palace. You can play your childish games once you leave the capital.” 

“Which one of us was Clan Head again, Reyna?” Hyperion growled. 

“Surely not the one arguing with his lesser sister,” Reyna replied. Isabelle bristled at being referred to as the lesser sister. “Whatever the case, I have more important matters to attend to.” She smirked at Isabelle. “Governments to topple. Do excuse me, dear family.” 

She exited the drawing room with a wave of her black hair, hips swinging and heels clicking against the tile. Isabelle felt incensed. Her sister had invited them over, and yet she was the first to leave. _Reyna always has to have the last word – has to leave with a dramatic flourish._

“Come on, Ares,” Isabelle spat, “we’re leaving.” She turned and swiftly began her departure. 

“Oh. I … uh … It was good to see you again, Hyperion.” Ares looked between her and Hyperion, before following after Isabelle. 

Behind them, Hyperion rolled his eyes. “Woe to the conquered,” he muttered, returning to the privacy of his suite. 

***

Isabelle faced blessedly few distractions on her way to the library. Their family reunion had left her in a bad mood. There was nothing she wanted more than to curl up with several volumes of _Theoretical Magical Paradigms_ and a warm cup of tea. 

The Palatial Library was truly impressive, only outshone by the most influential of academic institutions. Isabelle admired the multiple-story building as she entered, each floor linked by spiraling staircases and ladders that lined the walls. Hundreds of shelves boasted various books, many of which she couldn’t find even at the Arcane Institute. 

Ares made himself comfortable in a lounge chair near the large fireplace, anticipating that Isabelle would be spending quite some time perusing the stacks. She gave him an apologetic glance. Her brother waved in response, watching the flames as they flickered in the hearth. 

Isabelle flipped through a few instalments of an old model of magic, searching for anything that might give her new insights on her research. Reading had always been one of her favorite activities. People likened her memory to that of a photograph, a comparison she felt was not entirely accurate. It was nary a difficult task for her to recall details from the texts she’d read, but she couldn’t remember everything. She was just better than the average scholar. 

A person moved in her periphery, yet Isabelle ignored it. She quietly turned to page three hundred and ninety-four of her tome. The library was open to many people in the Palace – it would be more unusual if she was alone, barring Ares. There was no need to jump at shadows. Isabelle felt her eye twitch, however, when she heard those shadows speaking at a volume that wasn’t appropriate for a place of learning. 

“Give me one good reason not to cut a slit in my eyebrow,” someone with the quick tongue of Coven said. “Just one.” 

“You’ll look like you’re involved in a gang,” their companion responded. 

Isabelle blinked in surprise when she identified them as Annexian. She’d only met a handful of people from the formerly rebellious region. The war had meant that anyone that was associated with the Insurgency had felt unsafe across much of Eurydice. Several of her werewolf colleagues in Courtmere - born and raised in Sanguis, just like their vampiric counterparts - had fled to Ancient and Coven to escape the persecution in the east. 

“I said reasons _not_ to do it, Quill,” the Covenese person said. 

_Quill? As in Quill Lycan?_ Isabelle tiptoed to where the voices emanated from. She poked her head around a shelf, and observed the speakers. A fair, dark-haired man was gazing at himself in a floating mirror, the glowing tattoos on his body identifying him as a mage. His companion looked up at Isabelle suddenly, brows furrowed. Those golden eyes were unmistakably werewolf. 

There was no use in hiding, as they’d already made eye-contact. Isabelle stepped out and began marching towards them. Ares must have noticed her movement, as he soon peered out from behind her. Both men cocked their heads at the arrival of the two Tyduses. 

“Are you Quill Lycan?” Isabelle asked, looking straight at the werewolf. 

He nodded warily. “Yes. If you’ve come to ask me to go on a walk with you, I’m afraid I must decline.” 

Isabelle blinked in confusion. “What?” 

“I - never mind.” He looked relieved. 

“I’m Orion Livingstone,” the mage at his side winked, “in case you were wondering.” 

Isabelle frowned at him. “I wasn’t.” 

Quill barked a short laugh, before trying to play it off as a cough. Isabelle shook her head, not seeing the humor in her response. She rested a hand on her hip and studied the man that would soon be Potentate. 

“My name is Isabelle Tydus,” she told him, “and this is my brother, Ares.” 

Quill’s face fell. “Tydus,” he said slowly, “like Hype-”

“Hyperion and Reyna, yes. They’re my siblings. You’ll met them eventually, if you haven’t already.” 

Quill shrugged. “I’ve already met them, kind of. I spoke to Reyna not long ago. She’s…” he trailed off as he thought of what to say. 

Isabelle decided to spare him the effort. “Deplorable? Conniving?” 

“I was going to say ‘interesting’,” Quill stated, looking amused at her harsh words. 

Isabelle hmphed. “Don’t let her looks fool you,” she said, eyes narrowing. “Her fangs are sharp behind that smile. No offense, but you look like a wide-eyed idealist. I wouldn’t trust her or Hyperion, even if they are on the Inner Circle.” 

Quill raised an eyebrow at her. “Thanks for the warning,” he said lightly. 

Isabelle nodded. “Politics isn’t my game, but I know my siblings. You’d do good to stay away from them.” 

“Don’t talk about Reyna and Hyperion like that,” Ares pouted. His eyes had grown sad once again. They only ever did that when she talked about her family. 

Isabelle looked at Ares, feeling a tangle of emotions. He was always quick to defend their older siblings, even though he didn’t really know them. Not the way that Isabelle did, at least. She thought of all the things that he didn’t know about their family – all the things that he couldn’t know. 

Their mother had died giving birth to him, their father following shortly after. Isabelle and Ares had been cared for by Dragonfyre Keep’s stewards in their parents’ stead. Being raised by their castle attendants meant that she’d learned a lot about the former leaders of Starkhall. 

Their father drank tea laced with deadly nightshade soon after a fiery argument with his heir, the healers murmured. The servants would talk amongst themselves whenever they saw Ares, whispering that pureblood vampires did not have red hair; that their mother had been quite fond of a troupe of fire-elves that passed through Starkhall several months before his birth. Those whispers died abruptly, and there was only one person in the Tydus Clan who had eyes and ears everywhere.

Isabelle had hated the whispers the most. It didn’t matter that red hair wasn’t documented in their clan. Bloodlines could change, but love wouldn’t. Shouldn’t. Ares was nothing like Hyperion and Reyna. He wasn’t even really like her, and that was usually a comfort. Except for his eyes. She wished they were ice-blue, not sapphire blue. 

Orion clapped. “Mages, werewolves, and vampires,” he laughed heartily, “united by our shitty family members. This is what the First Sovereign wanted when they created the kingdom. Quill has his father, I have my mother, and you, sweetheart, have your siblings.” He looped his arms around Quill and Isabelle’s shoulders. “The life of the highborn sure is grand!” 

Isabelle snorted, and removed herself from his embrace. Ares was looking at the two men thoughtfully, a slight blush on his face. Isabelle nearly sighed. Her little brother was oft infatuated with anyone that was even remotely friendly. She made a note to spend more time with him in the future. He must have been lonelier in Starkhall than she realized. 

“Are you here for the Sovereign’s wedding, then?” Quill asked, before wrinkling his nose. “Mine. My wedding.”

She nodded. “Yes. I’m currently a student at the Arcane Institute, but I drove north once I received the royal invitation.” 

Quill’s golden eyes grew curious. “What are you studying?”

“Magic,” Isabelle braced herself for a strange look. “And technology.” Yes, she was a vampire that dealt with magic. It wasn’t that uncommon! She was not disappointed, though the strange looks came from Orion. 

“You went to the Arcane for _that_?” the mage asked, observing her.

Isabelle crossed her arms, trying not to sound defensive. “I did. Do you have a problem with my field? It’s not impossible to combine magic and technology. We’ve managed it before.” 

“Easy, vampy,” Orion said, hands raised in surrender. “I just meant that you should’ve gone to the Bluerose Institute instead. Specula were invented in Coven and not Ancient, after all.” 

“Don’t call me vampy,” she remarked, though Isabelle felt herself relax by a fraction. If Orion wasn’t disparaging her research, then perhaps she could take this opportunity to learn more about alchemical magic from him. 

“Which rune do you use most, Orion?” she inquired. Alchemy was more versatile than elemental magic, she’d learned. If she had any plans of completing her research, then she would likely end up in alchemist rather than elementalist circles. Orion made a show of considering his response, before ultimately shrugging. 

“Probably my ‘transformation’ types,” he responded, “both general and specialized. They’re very useful for _many_ situations.” He winked at her, prompting a sigh from Quill. 

“Can I see one?” Ares asked from Isabelle’s side. 

“That, my friend, would require a private audience.” 

Isabelle rolled her eyes, before one of the many runes on Orion’s arms caught her attention. It was a fusion, born from the combination of specialized ‘fire’ and ‘light’ runes. She’d taken several courses on rune design, and had learned about this uncommon type by chance during a rather long night in her dormitory. 

“You have a firelight rune,” Isabelle stated, remembering the name her textbook had used. “Not many people have that it. I’ve never seen a real one before, I don’t think.” 

Orion blinked, then grinned. “Well spotted, darling. For someone who’s not a mage, you know an awful lot about runes.” 

“Magic is magic. Will you use it for me?” 

Orion stepped in front of her, extending his hand. “I’ve heard,” he drawled, “that if you’re in close contact with a mage, you can actually feel magic coursing through them when they use it. May I?”

Isabelle nodded, taking his hand. She blinked with surprise when he twirled her around, wrapping an arm around her waist. Orion’s body warmed up, an almost electric tingle in the air around them. The other one – bearing the rune – began to glow softly as he channeled magic through it. 

She, Quill, and Ares watched as white fire burst from Orion’s palm, its heat momentarily buffeting her hair. It wasn’t long before the flames expanded and took the shape of a great dragon. Isabelle briefly fretted over the books, though the library was cavernous enough that the dragon could spread its wings. It soared across the library, opening its maw in a silent roar. The dragon morphed into a large wolf, twice the size of a dog. Howling wolf became a galloping stag, then a leaping lion, and then several fish. The fish wriggled around the four of them, before extinguishing as softly falling roses. 

“Well?” Orion whispered in her ear. “Are you satisfied?” 

Isabelle broke free of him, fixing her attire. “That was adequate. Thank you.” 

“Adequate,” Quill smirked at Orion. The mage grinned wolfishly at him, shaking his head. 

“That was amazing!” Ares gushed, eyes wide and excited. He began pestering Orion to perform more tricks. He obliged willingly enough, though none of them were quite as flashy as his firelight. 

It hurt her to admit, but her bluntness sometimes led to clashes with the intelligentsia of the Arcane Institute. It was a trait she shared with Hyperion, much to her chagrin. Isabelle had found herself only communicating with her professors, or studying alone on multiple occasions. She felt a small smile creep onto her face. This was nice. Quill seemed level-headed enough, and Orion – save his apparent fondness for physical contact – wasn’t awful. If nothing else, it was good to see Ares interacting with other people their age. 

She paused when she noticed a large man standing away from their group, silently watching them. He was dressed in the uniform of the Palace guards. Isabelle frowned at his unreadable expression.

_How long was he standing there? And how much did he hear?_


	15. Eclipse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A serpent finds shelter in a lonely tower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is!! The wedding. I was gushing during this entire chapter. I wouldn't call it fluff per se, but I'm a sucker for anything romantic. Did I have an entire playlist of slow music playing as I wrote it? Yes, yes I did.  
> Also, Quill's outfit is inspired by: http://oxot.com/snake-back-strap-dress/  
> And his necklace is inspired by: https://www.mey.london/shop/game-of-thrones/neck-sculptures/daenerys-drogon-neck-sculpture/

Ayden Caedis  
The Ironhill, 28 War

***

The bells in the Iron Cathedral were ringing. He’d heard them ringing from the Palace; they rang throughout their journey across the Ironhill. Ayden was at the front of the massive baroque cathedral, and he wished they would stop.

Arion stood at his right, wearing a sherwani in rich reds and golds. His smile was fixed firmly in place, but Ayden could detect the slightest tension in his relaxed posture. Grand Seer Calliope was in front of them, facing the crowd of important nobles and influential socialites that were allowed in the cathedral. She was dressed in full regalia, her strong features striking against the deep blues favoured by the Echolysian Faith. 

Ayden had been outfitted in the Caedis colours of black and pale gold. His royal cloak was darker, adorned with golden plates fashioned into a serpent’s head at each shoulder. His official crown rested on his head, canary diamonds gleaming. Legionnaire was a comforting weight at his side.

His first marriage was nowhere near this extravagant. Ayden had been young - barely an adult - and his father had just been slain in battle. There was little time for festivities. Ayden saw the shimmering effect of specula in nearly every direction he turned. After much deliberation, the Inner Circle had decided to broadcast both the wedding and the upcoming coronation across all of Eurydice. He kept his face pleasantly neutral. 

The bells had stopped ringing. Soft music emanated from the towering organ, and the choir began to sing melodiously. They increased their cadence, and Ayden felt the electric anticipation across the cathedral. An eager murmur fell over the crowd. Quill Lycan had arrived. 

The werewolf looked radiant underneath the artificial lights of the cathedral, his own cape long and flowing. Soft gold embroidery decorated the edges of his train, accentuating Quill’s golden eyes. His black hair was in stark contrast to the delicate white of his attire. Lady Fiona had certainly outdone herself. 

Theron Lycan led his son across the spacious aisle, their retinue of clerics falling away respectfully. He and Quill came to a stop at Ayden’s left. Quill smiled softly, eyes trained forward. Ayden resisted the urge to run his fingers along Legionnaire’s familiar hilt. He had a habit of doing that when confronted with a problem he couldn’t reason his way out of. 

Grand Seer Calliope lifted a hand, and the orchestral music faded. She looked down at the podium between her, Ayden and Quill. The Arcanum Antiquis, the Echolysian holy book, lay open before them. Calliope read verses from both the Tribus and Septem portions, her voice projecting strongly. Theron and Arion moved to their respective seats, leaving just the three of them. After a brief moment of prayer, Calliope began to speak in earnest. 

“The unification of the lands in what is now Ancient marked the dawn of the Fire Era, and the birth of Eurydice,” she began. “One by one, each of the seven old kingdoms joined to form our great realm. Ours is a special page in history, for none of the five continents – save Orpheus – have ever achieved such a feat.” 

_Ignoring the fact that half of the old kingdoms did not join willingly,_ Ayden thought. _Coven and the Seas were coerced at best, and we all know what happened to Lunae Lumen._ He spared a glance at Quill. His eyes seemed far away. 

“We are all gathered here today to witness another momentous occasion,” Calliope continued. “The end of the civil war, the longest in our history, and the reunification of Eurydice.” She smiled at them, giving a slight nod. 

Quill placed his right hand over the Arcanum Antiquis. Ayden rested his left over Quill’s smaller one, symbolizing which of their clans was in the higher position. Calliope ensconced their joined hands between her own. 

“Before me stands Ayden Caedis I, Sovereign Ruler of the Kingdom of Eurydice. And at his side – Quill Lycan, the man whose hand restores order and stability. This is the will of Echolyse, the Seer, communicated through her most loyal servants.”

Ayden cringed internally at the mention of Echolyse. Quill was a werewolf, and Annexian to boot. It was unlikely that he followed the Echolysian Faith. There was little Ayden could do, regretfully. Coven, Ancient, and Sanguis championed her. Three and seven were sacred numbers in the faith, and they were the first three regions that comprised Eurydice. The other four gods –Dadia, the Nymphae, Sedna, and Remus – were secondary to Echolyse. 

Quill, for his part, did not seem perturbed. He and Ayden dutifully recited the relevant verses from the Arcanum Antiquis. Ayden wondered if Quill had already known them, or if someone had drilled those words into him before the wedding. 

They said their vows, and Calliope blessed their union once their marriage went unchallenged. She bid them exchange the wedding gift, as it was custom for one person to honour their new spouse. Two clerics solemnly approached, each with a wine-coloured cushion. Ayden reached towards the one bearing their rings, slipping one on Quill’s finger. The werewolf reciprocated with the other ring. 

The second cleric held a glimmering diadem. This diadem was an informal crown, and was going to be Ayden’s gift to Quill. Its creators had crafted a fine piece of jewelry despite the relatively short notice. The body featured four snakes woven together in an intricate pattern; two on top, two below. A moonstone rested at the center, held in place by the heads of the serpents. It was a nice touch, Ayden supposed.

“With this gift,” Ayden said, injecting confidence into his voice, “I welcome you into my family.” He took the diadem, and gently laid it atop Quill’s black locks. In the intense lighting, Ayden could see a few brown strands. 

“Caedis shall be bound to Lycan,” Calliope rang, “as Lycan is bound to Caedis. From this day onwards, Ayden Caedis and Quill Lycan shall be unified before she who sees all.” 

Ayden turned to Quill, knowing what was to come next. He rested a hand against Quill’s cheek. The werewolf closed his eyes briefly, leaning into the vampire’s touch. Ayden kissed him softly, attentive to his responses. Quill returned it after a moment’s hesitation, but Ayden only lingered as long as was necessary. 

Polite and well-restrained claps erupted from the crowd, the choir and organist once again filling the cathedral with music. Calliope said some more words, but they passed over Ayden like water. He’d assumed that the next time he attended a royal wedding, it would have been for Esme or Lucien. _I never thought I’d be doing this again._

Once Calliope had performed the sacred rites, her army of clerics began to walk down the aisle. Ayden looped his fingers in-between Quill’s, following after them. The alchemists broadcasting the wedding floated specula at various locations, capturing all angles of their procession out of the Iron Cathedral. 

An ornate black and gold carriage idled by the cathedral doors, pulled along by four white horses. The Caedis and Lycan banners blew proudly in the cool air. The people assembled outside of the cathedral clapped and cheered, several waving hats and handkerchiefs. Ayden wasn’t surprised that the werewolf spectators were the most vocal of all. 

He helped Quill into the open-topped carriage, before climbing in himself. Esme and Lucien mounted the next one; Theron and Luna entered theirs two carriages over. Ayden watched the people as their ride began to move. The guards flanking them spurred their horses towards a light trot. 

The bells had resumed their ringing. Ayden waved to his subjects as they travelled along the road leading to the Redfyre Palace. Quill waved beside him, silent as a lone wolf. 

***

The Grand Ballroom sparkled with the light of the oversized chandeliers. Though its center was left open, there were many tables set along its sides and across the upper level. After the wedding, a list of special guests had been invited within the Palace for the reception. This was to be a more exclusive affair, with no specula in sight. 

Ayden had changed into simple, though regal, clothes. His tailcoat was spun with the rarest silks from eastern Briar. It was black chased with gold, as was befitting any Caedis ruler. He’d chosen a black shirt to complete the look. Legionnaire had been shed, leaving Ayden feeling oddly defenceless. 

The sun was setting; once it was down, the skylights would be opened to reveal the stars. Musicians from each of the regions alternated between various styles from their perch in the gallery. They were currently playing a jazz medley that Ayden idly tapped his foot to. The ballroom was abuzz with chatter from nobles, socialites, and celebrities alike. Ayden had invited Harold Tailor - an artist famous for his love songs - to the wedding. He was a favourite of Arion’s, though _why_ was beyond him. Hors d’oeuvres were being served as the guests awaited the main courses. Black, gold, silver, and blue streamers lined the walls and ceilings. 

He was seated at a grand table, beneath the banner of the crown. The serpent flew at its right, while the black tower occupied the left. Ayden thought of the twin bats that had once flown there, but quickly shook his head. The past was in the past. He needed to look forward if he wanted to rebuild his kingdom. If nothing else, it was unfair to Quill to be thinking of someone else on the day of their wedding. 

The other Governors and their retinues were neatly divided on each side of the central royal table. The Lycan party was seated as far away from the Skyreaches as possible. Ayden had considered placing them near each other, to show good faith and foster alliances, but he wasn’t naïve enough to believe that that would work. Led by Wolff or Lycan, the Annex still trampled over Stepes during the war. Such issues would be resolved in time, he hoped. 

Ayden had been informed by several handmaidens that Quill was still being fitted, and was thus seated alone. Arion sauntered over to him, grinning brightly while sipping a Briarean white. Ayden matched it, genuinely glad to see his old friend. The Suzerain leaned at his side, watching their people. 

“It’s finally over, huh?” Arion mused, eyes thoughtful. 

Ayden nodded with a sigh. “Yes. It’s finally over.” 

They sat in companionable silence for a little while, Arion sipping his wine and Ayden slowly working on a flute of champagne. He wasn’t much for champagne, but the bubbles were amusing to drink. 

“How sophisticated you two look,” Lady Persephone Sylph approached them, looking marvellous in her green and blue sari. Her thick black hair cascaded over her shoulders. “Are you some minor lords? Or perhaps one of those film stars that have been making waves in cinema?” 

Ayden smiled, giving the elven woman a friendly embrace. “Don’t think you can talk your way back into my good graces, Persephone. I’m still disappointed that you weren’t the flower girl. It seemed appropriate.” 

Persephone returned his affection. “I’m more than my flowers, Ayden. I do have the full range of earth magic, you know.” 

“They’re just one of your many fine qualities,” Arion doted, wrapping his arms around his wife. She laughed, amused by his antics. Ayden squashed the pang of loneliness he felt as he watched them. 

“Where’s Lazuli?” he asked, distracting himself. He’d seen the youngest Sylph at the wedding ceremony, but she’d vanished since then. 

Persephone sighed. “I put her to bed. She started learning to control the air, and takes every opportunity to fly. Laz is as adventurous as her father.” She glared at Arion. 

Arion adopted an innocent facade. “Don’t blame me. Daughters are a handful, especially younger ones.” He sniffed dramatically. “Little children know how to hit you where it hurts. Lazuli told me I smelled like a vampire the other day. What does that even mean? I’ve spent too much time in the Ironhill. I’m resigning.” 

Ayden snorted. “That’s nothing. Esme told me that she wanted a snake. A snake!” 

“Well, it is your sigil,” Persephone reminded him. “Your father was the Serpent, and you are the Viper. She likely wants a snake moniker of her own.” 

“They’re metaphorical names. I don’t know the first thing about snakes. Do you?” 

Arion looked deep in thought. “They shed, slither around, and eat mice.” 

“Disgusting,” Ayden shuddered. 

Persephone raised a dark brow. “You drink _blood_ , Ayden.” 

His smart response was cut short by gasps from the crowd. The three of them turned towards the grand staircase, and watched as Quill Lycan made his way across the upper level. Ayden blinked in surprise as Arion released a low whistle. Near them, Theron Lycan almost choked on his drink as he chatted with Lyra Livingstone. 

Though he still wore the diadem, Quill had exchanged his pure whites for a daring black number. The top hugged his slender form, thin straps ending just along his collarbones. It cinched at his waist, before billowing out extravagantly towards the bottom. Pale gold jewels lined his arms, contrasting rather pleasantly with his olive skin. The dark lining around his eyes almost made them glow in the electrical lighting. 

Ayden’s attention, however, was drawn to what was behind his outfit. It was incredibly revealing. Quill’s entire back was on display. A large golden snake ran down the length of his frame, several chains holding his ensemble together. They criss-crossed the farther down one looked, finally linking up at the small of his back. 

“That’s … provocative,” Ayden breathed. He wiped the dumbstruck expression from his face as Quill descended the stairs. 

“Are you provoked?” Arion smirked. 

Quill was pretty, Ayden admitted. He wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous or anything; people wouldn’t fall in love with him at first sight. He was pretty. A bit pouty, but it somehow worked for his lips. Right now, though - walking through the crowd as they parted for him, risqué attire contradicting the nervous blush on his face – Ayden thought that he was absolutely divine. 

The arrival of his husband meant that the feasting could commence. Quill was escorted to his seat next to Ayden, sitting down delicately. He blinked demurely at the gathered guests. _Quill is either very good at playing coy,_ Ayden thought, _or he has no idea what he just did._ He offered Quill a small smile, which the werewolf shyly returned. 

The dishes were brought out soon after, each course more magnificent than the last. Roasts, venison, exotic seafood, seasonal vegetables, pastries, and more were offered up. Separate dishes were served for the vampiric guests, the red tinge of sanguinem present across all of them. Ayden rolled his eyes at Lady Fiona’s extravagance, who only raised her glass of wine in response. 

Quill nibbled at his food, never taking more than a few bites of each kind. Ayden watched him for a bit, before finally engaging the quiet man at his side. 

“Do you like jazz?” Ayden asked, setting his cutlery aside. 

Quill blinked in surprise. “I suppose?” he said. Ayden wasn’t sure if it was a question or an answer. “We don’t really hear it much in the Annex. At least, not in Lunares.” 

“What is your music like?” 

Quill shrugged. “A lot more involved. It features more drums and flutes, too.” A pause. “But I like the jazz. It’s upbeat.” 

Their somewhat awkward conversation was interrupted as Arion stood up, clinking a spoon against his wine glass. Ayden sighed as he prepared himself for whatever theatrics his friend was about to unleash. The room quieted as they waited to hear what the Suzerain had to say. 

“I always feared that our children would know only a world drenched in blood,” Arion started, unusually solemn. “And yet, here sit the six Governors of the Great Clans.” He looked at each Governor in turn as he spoke. “Caedis, Sylph, Livingstone, Trident, Skyreach … and Lycan. Seven regions, six clans to lead them, five gods to guide them, and one throne to unite us all. For the first time in an Era, the kingdom is whole.

“We always honour the fallen. But today, we can celebrate. Eurydice walks in the light, and Orpheus looks forward. A toast to Sovereign Ayden Caedis, for bringing peace to the realm.” Arion smiled at Quill. “And a toast to Quill Lycan, our symbol of peace. May your legacy be a good one. One nation, unified!”

Chants of _‘one nation, unified’_ rang out across the ballroom. Ayden and Quill lifted their glasses, joining their people. The Sovereign smiled at his friend, grateful for his speech. Arion grinned back, before making his way to Harold Tailor’s table. The festivities continued. 

Quill had gone quiet once more. Ayden rose and offered his hand to his husband as the band changed to a slower, more sensual song. It was about time for the first dance. Quill accepted his hand, allowing himself to be pulled against Ayden’s side. He guided them to the middle of the ballroom, gripping the small of Quill’s back. The werewolf tensed briefly, before relaxing. 

“Have you ever gone ballroom dancing before?” Ayden inquired lowly. 

Quill nodded. “Yes,” he replied, “but not like this.” 

Ayden hummed. “Follow my lead.” 

Quill wrapped his arms around Ayden, and soon fell in step with him. This close to him, Ayden could see how sheer the black fabric was. It caught the light easily, shimmering every time he spun Quill around. Ayden led them through the steps, keeping his focus solely on the man in his arms. The music complemented their tempo.

Quill seemed flustered by the attention. “There’s so many people looking at us,” he whispered. 

“Us?” Ayden allowed him to drift away momentarily, before pulling him closer. He caught him at a precise moment, their faces mere inches away from each other. “They’re here for _you_ , Quill Lycan.” 

An uproarious applause went up as they concluded their dance. Soon, more couples took their turn on the floor. The band switched to music that matched their high spirits. Ayden took them back to their table, ordering for their drinks to be refilled. Quill hesitantly sipped his own champagne, a light flush gracing his face. 

They received several words from the well-wishers that were bold enough to approach their table. A few would talk about their plans now that the Insurgency had ceased, a topic that either he or Quill would subtly steer their conversation away from. Quill was handling meeting so many new people fairly well, Ayden thought. He had the residual restlessness of someone that hadn’t been groomed to rule, but Ayden felt that he would likely learn after some time in the capital. 

_And if he doesn’t, well, I’ve been ruling alone for years. I’m sure I’ll manage._ Ayden took a sip of his champagne, nose crinkling. 

He turned to Quill, and followed his line of vision when he found him staring towards the side. Theron was engaged in conversation with Lyra and Tiberia Trident. The mage made a comment, prompting laughs from all three of them.

“Looks like my father is making more friends,” Quill said dryly. 

Ayden watched the Governors impassively. “Is that new for him?” 

“I don’t know. He’s good at getting people to do as he says. Does that count as friendship?” 

Ayden paused, deciding to humour him. “I don’t think so. In any case, the Governors are all of a level with each other. I doubt he could make them do as he says.” 

“I see. Is that why you put my family on the opposite end to the Skyreaches?” Quill smiled then, something sharper than he was used to seeing on the werewolf. “I don’t blame you. Stepes has more reason than any region to dislike the Annex - even more than Sanguis.” 

“Heavy matters for a different day. Here, try this.” 

Ayden speared a fascinating roll – sushi, he’d heard it called – and presented it before Quill. He’d taken some without sanguinem out of curiosity. Golden eyes looked confused, before Quill accepted the green food. Ayden smiled at him encouragingly. 

“Well, isn’t that sweet!” someone boomed. Ayden looked up as Liam Caedis strode over to their table. He flashed his fangs enthusiastically at the man’s contagious merriness. 

“Quill,” Ayden said, rising, “this is Prince Liam Caedis, the Lord of Serpentspire. You haven’t changed at all, uncle.” 

Liam roared with laughter, slapping his great stomach. “You flatter me, Your Majesty. Acting as the _actual_ Governor in Sanguis while you run around with the title will make anyone grow large, nephew.” 

Quill rose as well, bowing politely. “Efforts done in the shadows are just as valiant, Your Highness,” he said. 

Liam grinned broadly at him. “Polite little thing, aren’t you?” he chuckled. 

“My mother is an advocate for propriety. She wanted me to be a suitable husband for a lord or lady.” 

“She must be disappointed, seeing as you’re wedding a Sovereign instead of a lord.” 

Quill cracked a smile. “Truly devasted. Inconsolable, even.” 

Ayden watched them exasperatedly. Selene had always said that Liam was her favourite Caedis. He would honestly burn down Serpentspire if Quill held the same sentiments by the end of the night. 

Liam soon excused himself, returning to his seat with the branch Caedis members. Quill watched them curiously. 

“Why are you not the Lord of Serpentspire?” he inquired, head tilted. Ayden thought it was cute, like a puppy. “You bear the title of Governor.” 

Ayden shrugged. “Celeste Caedis kept her status as Governor when she took the throne, and her successors did the same. I’m not in Redmouth often enough to be a useful Governor, so it’s better logistically to have Liam rule in my stead. Internal Caedis politics is strange. I try to stay out of it.” 

Hyperion marched towards their table then, blond hair tied back and arms folded neatly behind him. He bowed expertly, not a muscle out of place. The Master offered a smile that did not reach his ice-blue eyes. 

“Your Majesty,” he drawled, “Lord Quill. I must say, I am enjoying the festivities. It has been pleasing to devote time to things other than war schematics.” 

“I’ve never known you to enjoy celebrations,” Ayden replied. “It’s a welcome change. We’ll make a partier out of you yet, Hyperion.” 

The blond laughed softly, before training his eyes on Quill. “Might I trouble you for a dance, my lord?” 

Quill tensed, but it was gone in a flash. He rose gracefully, accepting the hand that Hyperion offered. The vampire kissed it lightly, lips barely touching skin, before nodding at Ayden and whisking Quill away. Ayden was mindful of where Hyperion placed his hand, given the limited material of Quill’s attire. He was satisfied when no untoward liberties were taken against the werewolf’s body.

Ayden watched the crowd as he sat alone once again. Lucien and Esme had moved near Luna Lycan and the younger Livingstone. He’d observed the four of them interacting fairly frequently. It was good to see the princess, and especially the prince, making new friends. Their generation would need strong alliances to ensure the continued safety of Eurydice. Bonds made during one’s youth were often the strongest, he thought, glancing to where Arion still chatted with Harold Tailor. 

Theron Lycan appeared at his side. Ayden rose to meet his father-in-law, bowing respectfully. The man returned it easily. 

“Lord Theron,” Ayden said, “it is a shame that the other Lycans could not attend. I would have liked to meet the rest of my husband’s family.” 

Theron hummed in assent. “Alas, the change in leadership was too recent to leave the Annex unguarded. I am sure they were watching the procession via specula.” 

“Such was the reason for their inclusion,” Ayden charmed. “Eurydice should know the clans that contributed to the end of the war.” 

“Yes, they should. Caedis is bound to Lycan, as Lycan is bound to Caedis.” 

They spoke to each other over various shallow topics. It was an interesting little dance as they both avoided mentioning the fact that they were enemies mere months ago. Ayden felt like the man was sizing him up, amber eyes sharp behind that placid expression. He wondered if they’d ever crossed paths on the battlefield. 

Theron raised an eyebrow when Hyperion returned Quill before dismissing himself with a flourish. He posed a silent question to his son, which Quill answered with a grimace. Ayden wasn’t sure if their nonverbal interaction was due to Quill’s bold clothing, or his dance with Hyperion. 

They took their seats, and it was soon announced that it was time to receive the wedding gifts. Liam proudly presented him with a golden sword, pommel shaped like a serpent. It was a claymore that was nearly identical to Legionnaire, colouring notwithstanding. Both were too heavy to effectively dual wield, which wasn’t even his preferred style - but at least he could have some variety in weaponry. 

“A beautiful thing,” Liam sighed as Ayden held it up in the light. The gold rippled as he turned it around. “What will you name it?” 

“This will make a fine companion to Legionnaire,” Ayden mused. He looked at Quill, who was watching him neutrally. “Celeste Caedis named her own golden sword Sun Strike. Mine shall be called Eclipse.” _For when the moon outshines the sun._

Many other gifts were offered next. The Livingstones provided them with an emerald cut Philosopher’s Stone, carved from the Living Stone Rock itself. It could fit in the palm of one’s hands, but Ayden knew even that would have cost a buyer a small fortune. Theron gave Quill a preserved copy of the Life of Dadia Stareyes. Ayden wanted to ask what prompted him to choose the commonfolk Sovereign, but his questions died as he glimpsed how wide Quill’s eyes grew. The werewolf clutched the book reverently, offering a small thank-you to his father. 

Reyna was next, holding a necklace in the shape of a viper. It wasn’t completely circular, as its front remained unclosed. The Master herself wrapped it around Quill, the viper winding along his neck. Ayden thought it looked like a collar. He wondered how Quill felt, wearing four snakes on his head, one at his back, and another across his neck. In a room likely full of them, too. With the ruler of the snakes at his side. 

He’d have included more of the Lycan sigil, except theirs was a fucking tower. What was Ayden going to do? Build one? 

Quill thanked Reyna for the necklace, and she returned to her seat with the other Tyduses. After they had gone through their gifts, it was time to cut the cake. Quill’s hand shook slightly as he grasped the ornate dagger they were using. Ayden steadied him, the soft frosting no match for their combined strength. Slices were served to the guests, though the vampires received a separate one. Their dietary limitations were irritating at times, and most non-vampires could not consume sanguinem without feeling ill.

The influx of sugary desserts gave people their second wind, and the ballroom was soon abuzz with dancers once more. Ayden waltzed with Persephone and Reyna, even dragging Lady Fiona along for a turn or two. Quill had his fair share of partners, dancing with the two younger Tyduses as well as some prolific werewolf celebrities. 

It wasn’t long before Liam drew the attention of the crowd, a shark-like grin on his face. He was well into his cups at this point, dark hair tussled and red eyes gleaming. 

“The Caedis words are ‘The Night Lays Claim,’” Liam boomed, fangs sharp. “It is time for our Sovereign to lay claim to what is his!” 

_Serpentspire burns tonight,_ Ayden thought, glancing at the bright flush across Quill’s cheeks. Many cheers rang at the suggestion of the marriage consummation. The band belted out ‘The Milkmaid’s Son,’ a ribald wedding song whose name could be changed depending on the genders of the couple. 

Quill was swept away by his attendants, as it was custom for the higher family to wait for their newest member. They would take him to the Sovereign’s wing. Ayden endured the japes from the crowd, though he matched a few of them with his own. He clapped Arion’s back good-naturedly. Arion laughed, but Ayden could see a tinge of sadness in his brown eyes. The elf had been downright boisterous, back when… 

Ayden smiled and shook his head, hoping to chase away that sadness. _Everything will be alright,_ he tried to say with his eyes. Arion returned his look and nodded. The stars shined through the skylights, visible despite the chandeliers. It was a new moon tonight, the barest silver striking the sky.

\---

The Sovereign’s wing was a series of rooms that stretched out behind two imposing doors. There were many bedchambers within its confines, but the largest of them was where Ayden slept. He’d grown accustomed to its decadence after so many years on the throne. As Ayden walked through the gilded doors, however, he found himself distracted by nearly everything in his wing. 

He’d retreated to his wing after the giggling handmaidens had returned without Quill. He could still hear the bawdy tunes from the ballroom as the band cheekily serenaded the royal couple. Ayden steeled himself, and pushed open the smaller doors of his personal chambers. There was little point in stalling. 

Quill was facing the window, looking at the moon. Ayden bit the collar of his black tailcoat, deftly loosening it as he walked. He released it, and instead focused on the cufflinks on his shirt. Quill had turned towards him, eyes glowing in the moonlight. It was quiet now, the atmosphere dark. Ayden fished around for something to say that would break the tension. 

“Interesting outfit,” he decided. 

Quill blinked at him, turning around so Ayden could get a closer view of the golden snake. “Reyna insisted,” he said meekly. “I don’t usually dress this way.” 

“It looks nice.” 

Ayden ran a finger down the snake’s length. It felt cool to the touch, contrasting the warmth from Quill’s body. He felt a notch near the base, where it could be separated so that the top would fall away from its wearer. Quill lightly shivered as Ayden’s finger brushed his skin.

“Thank you,” the werewolf replied. 

Ayden snaked an arm around Quill’s waist from behind. He could smell perfume on him, something heady but strangely feminine. He hovered by Quill’s ear, breathing in the scent. Ayden trailed a hand slowly across Quill’s chest. He shivered again. 

“Are you cold?” Ayden whispered. 

“No,” Quill said, voice wavering. “I … your temperature is lower than I anticipated.” 

_Not the answer I was expecting._ “Never been with a vampire?” 

“There weren’t many in Lunares.” 

Ayden removed his arm, stepping away from the other man. He ruffled his hair, and sighed. 

“You’re tense,” Ayden stated bluntly. “We can stop, if you wish.” 

Quill turned, furrowing his brows at him. “We must consummate the marriage. The peace relies on our marriage, which won’t be legitimate until then.” 

Ayden shrugged. “No need for politics. It doesn’t have to be tonight.” He gestured vaguely across the room. “I won’t force you. You may stay in my wing, or return to your own. The Redfyre Palace is yours now.” 

Ayden made to leave – to find some other task to complete – when Quill grasped his arm. He looked up at Ayden, eyes darkening.

“No,” Quill said, “I-I want to, Ayden.” 

Ayden had yet to hear Quill use his given name, though he’d given him permission when he arrived in the capital. He stared down at the man, checking for signs of hesitation and unwillingness. 

“Are you sure?” Ayden asked.

Quill bit his lip, and lowered his eyes. He began to unfasten the rest of Ayden’s tailcoat, movements serene and unhurried. His demure expression was in sharp contrast to the way he undressed Ayden. 

“Quill?” Ayden tried once more. 

Ayden’s tailcoat fell to the ground with a heavy rustle from all the embellishments. Quill lifted the hem of Ayden’s shirt slowly, exposing his lower muscles. Ayden felt a light prick of nails on his abdomen as he did so. 

Quill looked at him with heavy lidded eyes. “Ayden?”

He pulled Quill flush against him, and began guiding them towards the bed. Ayden walked forward, forcing Quill to walk backwards. They tumbled into the downy sheets together. Ayden admired Quill’s hair, mussed up against the bed like a dark halo. He ran a hand through it, and the man beneath him began to breathe harder. 

Quill traced a finger over Ayden’s cheek, hovering his thumb over Ayden’s lips. His eyes flickered between them and the rest of Ayden’s face. The vampire unbuttoned his black shirt, shrugging it off of his shoulders. Quill’s pupils were dilated; his own were probably not that much different. 

Ayden removed the viper Reyna had placed around Quill’s neck, leaving it exposed. Quill tilted his head up afterwards. Red eyes met gold one more time, an unspoken question hanging between them.

Quill nodded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spotlight: Lazarus Clan
> 
> The Lazarus Clan are fairly young vassals sworn to the Caedis family. Their seat is the Riverfort in Sangtown. They rose to prominence during the Gray Era, when southern willows, the main ingredient of graybane - the only known medicine that can treat the deadly Gray Waste – were discovered in their territory. The decision to wed the future Heir Apparent to a Lazarus was a surprising one, as there were higher-ranking vassals in the region. Hawthorne Lazarus, the former Lord of the Riverfort, temporarily served as Suzerain during the Siege of Tyrant's March. He later died leading a doomed expedition to reclaim the west, after the Bloody Serpent's fall. Eliza Lazarus took over the duties as Clan Head after her husband. She died of an illness that healers were unable to identify or treat. Rowena Lazarus, Hawthorne’s sister, is the current Clan Head.  
> Their words are "We Rise From the Shadows". Recent members include:  
> {Hawthorne Lazarus}, former Lord of the Riverfort and Head of the Lazarus Clan. He died months after the Siege of Tyrant's March.  
> {Eliza Lazarus}, former Lady of the Riverfort. Died of a strange blood illness.  
> Rowena Lazarus, current Lady of the Riverfort and General of the Army. She is the Clan Head, and Hawthorne's younger sister.  
> {Selene Caedis (née Lazarus)}, daughter of Hawthorne and Eliza. Former Potentate of Eurydice.


	16. First of His People

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Long may he reign.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a task and a half to write, but I'm fairly happy with it. We also get another tiny glimpse into the lands beyond Orpheus. I can include other lores, as a treat.

Quill Lycan  
The Ironhill, 28 War

***

Those fucking bells never stopped ringing. 

Quill had woken up to them after his wedding, in the unfamiliarity of the Sovereign’s wing. He’d woken up to them the next day, too, after he’d moved his belongings into the equally unfamiliar Potentate’s wing. Ayden had told him that the Redfyre Palace was his, but that was not entirely true. He was married to the Sovereign, but he wasn’t the Potentate. Not yet. 

The bells rang now, as Quill stood alone in the wing that wasn’t his. He glanced out of the window, towards the city. The sky was gray and overcast. The Iron Cathedral loomed ominously in the distance. Once Quill walked out of those massive doors, he would be the Potentate of the Kingdom of Eurydice. 

Quill turned away from the window. He sharpened and unsharpened his nails several times, but it didn’t help. The bells didn’t help. This was overwhelming. 

His first time with Ayden had been unexpectedly pleasant. Quill had prepared himself to do whatever the Viper demanded. Yet, the Viper had made no demands of him. Ayden was initially hesitant, only growing bolder with coaxing from Quill. He’d spent the night in the Sovereign’s wing, ignoring the toothy grins and teasing smiles from Orion, Lord Arion, and Prince Liam. 

Quill’s interactions with his husband since then had been friendly, but with an underlying guard. 

He wondered when he would break that guard. Everyone in the capital spoke in riddles, hiding their true intentions behind pretty words and questions without answers. The idea of spending his life like this – talking to the Sovereign but never _saying_ anything – was enough to drive him mad. The Ironhill would drive him mad. 

Quill glanced at the book his father had gifted him. The Life of Dadia Stareyes. He was surprised that Theron remembered his favourite monarch; that he even knew at all. 

Quill had been dressed in black, as was befitting a Caedis spouse. The dark material thankfully covered his entire body. Silver embellishments lined the collar and shoulders, a detail he’d added as a nod to the Lycan colours. The metalwork was mainly decorative, but it still felt like armour all the same. 

He ghosted his hand over the ornate handle of the wing’s doors. He inhaled deeply, and slowly pushed them open. His attendants lined the hallways, having patiently allowed him a few moments to collect himself. He nodded that he was ready, and they began leading him outside of the Palace. The large guard – Quill considered the man his at this point – trailed behind them. 

A long line of vehicles waited beneath the stairs. There was much activity as people vacated the Palace sporadically, driving towards the cathedral. Ayden had left ahead of him, as it was customary for the Sovereign to arrive before their spouse. Quill would be doing this alone. He modified his nails one last time, before making his way towards the automobiles. 

“Pardon me, my lord,” Hyperion Tydus drawled, “might I accompany you to your vehicle?”

There was always an ulterior motive when someone in the Ironhill asked to walk with you, Quill had learned. He didn’t need Isabelle’s warning to know that there was something unsettling about the blond vampire. Hyperion was a perfect gentleman when they shared a dance, yet Quill had still felt uncomfortably vulnerable in the man’s arms. 

He adopted a diplomatic smile. “It’s no trouble, Lord Tydus. It’s not far.” 

“I insist.” 

Quill capitulated, and Hyperion fell in step with him as they walked together. The sounds of their shoes and the bells only heightened Quill’s anxiety. Hyperion, for his part, seemed completely at ease as he glided down the stairs.

“I must say,” Hyperion said, “I enjoyed our little dance. You look even more radiant today. You outshine the other werewolves here.”

 _What an empty compliment._ The werewolf population within the Iron City was not exceptionally high. There were even fewer werewolves inside the confines of the Palace. Hyperion may as well have praised the only tavern in town for having the finest ale amongst its competitors. 

“How kind of you to say,” Quill responded. They both smiled politely at each other. He mentally counted the number of steps they still needed to take. 

“Now that you are wed, shall one address you as Potentate Consort?” Hyperion asked. His face was tranquil, blue eyes trained forward. 

Quill twitched his eye. Hyperion was _technically_ correct. He could not yet claim the titles and powers of a Potentate. Not until the Grand Seer placed the official crown on his head. Quill forced himself not to rise to the challenge. 

“Potentate is fine,” he replied tightly. “I will soon be a ruler in my own right, as the laws of Eurydice decree.” 

Hyperion inclined his head in apology. “Do forgive me, my lord,” he said. 

“No harm done.” Two could play at this game. “I imagine such titles have been of little use to your clan. It has been over a century since a Tydus wed anyone in the royal branch.” 

There was a pause as Hyperion looked taken aback. He regained his composure momentarily, though his smile had lost its false amicability. 

“Metal crowns are easier to come by these days than their paper counterparts, it seems.” Hyperion posited, fangs glinting threateningly in the quickly-weakening sunlight. 

“How so?” Quill asked pleasantly. 

“It is not every day that one is rewarded with a throne for betraying their liege.” 

“If it were truly so easy, Lord Tydus,” Quill stated, “then why have you not done so yourself?” 

They reached Quill’s vehicle before Hyperion could answer. Quill idled outside of the door as it was held open for him. He turned to Hyperion, offering him a polite bow. This might be one of the last times he bowed to anyone, Quill realized with a mix of amusement and apprehension.

“Thank you for your time,” Quill said to him, slipping into the vehicle. The door was closed, muffling the sounds of the Ironhill. Quill leaned against the window, satisfied by the confounded expression on Hyperion’s face. 

\---

The Hill was always watching, and once again, so was Eurydice. Specula floated everywhere Quill looked, much like at his wedding. Quill traversed the aisle towards the Grand Seer for a second time. Several clerics walked beside him, the chants and songs from the choir reverberating through the Iron Cathedral.

Ayden was seated at the front, looking regal and untouchable. Quill wondered how the vampire always remained so striking yet detached. Even though the focus was not on him, the Sovereign exuded power and authority. Eclipse gleamed at his side, matching the diamonds in his crown. Quill walked past him, and their eyes met for a moment.

_Does Ayden ever feel this way? Like things are beyond his control, and everything is too much?_

Quill came to a stop before Grand Seer Calliope. A heavy cloak was draped across his shoulders by the clerics. The royal orb and sceptre were bestowed upon him, and he held them as steadily as he could. Quill turned to face the crowd. The music ceased, and Calliope began to address the people. 

Quill’s eyes roved over the assembly as Calliope spoke. Several werewolves were present, watching him with looks akin to fragile hope. A few of the other spectators regarded them tensely. Though the war was officially over, the old distrust of his kind still remained. Thoughts of the Annex crawled into Quill’s mind. Would the region be watching him, too? His family? 

The enormity of the task that Theron had volunteered him for dawned on Quill as he gazed across the many faces before him. A Potentate’s reach was not equal to that of their Sovereign, but they still wielded a significant amount of power over the kingdom. Calliope went on about Eurydice, of peace, of the future. Quill would be expected to unify a fractured realm that mistrusted his people on principle. 

_No, not mistrusts,_ Quill thought, observing as a vampire and a werewolf shared a fierce glare between them. _Hates. Eurydice has never loved us; we’ve always been outsiders. Rose Era, Gold Era, War Era, it makes no difference._

The crown jewels began to shake, but Quill forced himself to relax. If there was ever a day where he needed to be strong, it was today. He needed to be neither broken nor timid. 

Calliope spoke more of unity in the realm, but her words floated through his ears. Eyes scanning across the crowd, Quill took notice of how everyone had arranged themselves. Vampires grouped with elves; commonfolk were interspersed; mages, sirens, and werewolves stood alone. Despite the presence of all six Eurydicean races, there was a sense of separation. The kingdom’s history was not perfect, and the decades-long war had been another blow to a slow-healing wound.

_This … this isn’t unity. Eurydice has a long way to go before we can truly make that claim. But, maybe…_

He was brought back to the present at the mention of Echolyse. Quill traced a finger over the sceptre in his hand thoughtfully. Eurydice professed religious freedom – and that was true, to some extent – but Echolyse still held dominion over the other four gods. The vampire Bloodworth dynasty had championed her, as had the magi Rosemonts that succeeded them. There had been no royal family during the Ambition Era, and the Echolysian Faith had ruled the kingdom instead. During that Era, the Grand Seer had effectively been the Sovereign. 

But Quill wasn’t from Ancient, or Sanguis, or Coven. Echolyse was not his god; she was not the champion of the werewolves. He was born from the embers of the old Lunae Lumen. The Annex was not the fallen kingdom, but its people hadn’t changed. They had not lost their will. 

Quill closed his eyes briefly. His father wanted him to be a docile pawn in his ambitions. The crown was using him to keep the Annex pacified. The symbol of peace, they called him. This peace was held together by his presence, but that didn’t mean that his voice was useless. Quill spared another glance at the werewolves that watched him from afar. 

Sovereign Dadia Stareyes had broken tradition multiple times during her reign. She had been a force to be reckoned with, and Eurydice had grown to love her and her commonfolk for it. Quill lightly squeezed the orb. He had an idea. 

Calliope walked to his side, holding the crown that was designed for him. It was smaller than Ayden’s, adorned with blue diamonds. The Grand Seer held it high, displaying it for all to see. She approached Quill, and commenced the process of the real coronation. 

“Echolyse gifted humanity with two hands,” Calliope began. “Just as so, the Red Throne protects Eurydice with its left and right monarchs. We have been blessed with the right for many years, and today,” she turned towards Quill, “we shall once again have the left.” 

Calliope continued. “Quill Lycan,” she said, “are you prepared to uphold and defend the Kingdom of Eurydice and its territories?”

“I am,” Quill answered. He’d spent an absurdly long time practicing how he was going to respond to the questions of the sacred oath. With so many eyes on him, the last thing he wanted to do was make a rudimentary mistake.

“Will you shield its people from those that seek to cause harm?” 

“I will.” 

Quill knelt, and Calliope held the diamond crown above his head. She looked towards the crowd. 

“Swear this before Echolyse,” Calliope said, “and it shall be so.” 

Quill focused his eyes on a speculum that floated in his direct field of vision. He steeled himself, not wanting to lose his nerve at the most crucial point. 

“I swear it before Echolyse, the Seer, who guides our steps,” Quill’s voice rang out with more confidence than he felt. Calliope smiled, opening her mouth to speak, but Quill wasn’t finished. “And I swear it before Remus, the champion of the werewolves.” 

A shocked silence followed his words as the people processed his complete deviation from the royal script. Quill glanced at Ayden, but the vampire’s face was unreadable. Theron, for once, looked like he didn’t know how to react to the situation unfolding before him. Quill wasn’t sure if that was for better or worse. 

Calliope gave a tight nod, her eyes betraying her own surprise. The raising of her hands quieted the restless murmur in the cathedral. With so many different expressions in the crowd, Quill couldn’t quite tell what everyone was thinking. He kept his grip on the orb and sceptre strong, not wanting to show how nervous he felt in the wake of his proclamation.

“With the knowledge that is given me,” Calliope said, slowly bestowing the crown onto Quill’s head, “I crown you Quill Lycan, Potentate of the Kingdom of Eurydice. May your steps lie in the light, for your rule is the will of the Seer.” 

The onlookers bowed as Quill rose. His subjects soon rose themselves, singing along with the choir. The werewolves seemed most eager to welcome his reign, voices ringing across the cathedral. The sight of their jubilation was enough to reassure Quill that he had made the right decision. Eurydice had been unkind to his people, but now he would have a hand in remedying centuries of strife.

Ayden and Calliope remained standing throughout the bowing ceremony, as they were the only people in the realm that Quill could not command. He locked eyes with his husband, but Ayden’s features still did not betray a single thought. 

\---

After the Grand Seer had said her last words, Quill was free to walk amongst the people in the Iron Cathedral. All of the specula had been deactivated, and the only eyes on Quill were the ones he could see before him. The nobles from outside of the Ironhill mingled with each other, though many of them kept to their circles. The crown felt foreign on Quill. 

Ayden walked up to his side, calmly watching the people. Neither man talked to the other. They stood together like this, the left and right hands of the Red Throne. Eventually, Ayden broke the silence.

“The first office I ever held was Sovereign of Eurydice,” he mused. “I had to learn to rule very quickly. I’d inherited a broken kingdom from my father, and the thought of leaving an even more fractured realm for my children haunted me.” His eyes drifted to Lucien and Esmerelda, though they lingered on the prince. 

“You are a werewolf,” Ayden said quietly, “and a former Insurgent at that. Any mistake you make will be attacked twice as harshly. I can’t promise that you’ll always be able to speak as freely as you did today.”

Quill contemplated Ayden’s words. He wasn’t reprimanding Quill for breaking tradition, not quite. It felt more like the Sovereign was cautioning him. 

“Your side won the war,” Quill replied, “but I am now the Potentate. Your Potentate. Let them attack me. I won’t hide myself from my people.” He finally turned towards Ayden. “You brought me to the capital, hailed me as the symbol of peace, and put a crown on my head. I intend to use it.”

Ayden trained his red eyes on Quill. A strange look passed over him, but it was gone in a second. “The left hand doesn’t need permission from the right,” Ayden said. “They instead balance the other. You are young as well, and you will have much to learn. I look forward to working with you, Quill.” 

With that, he made his way over to where the Suzerain was located. Quill was distracted by movement in his peripheral vision. A broad grin crossed his face when he saw Orion waving eagerly at him. Ares was bouncing excitedly, though Isabelle was more subdued in her exuberance. 

Quill walked towards them, only to feel his heart sink when he nearly bumped into Hyperion. They tried to circumvent each other, but ended up going in the same direction. Quill wasn’t sure he could handle two interactions with this man in one day. 

Hyperion offered him a tight smile. “Your Grace,” he said. Quill could almost feel his grimace at the words used to address the Potentate. “My services are yours from now on. I image you’ll need much assistance with your new station.”

“Lord Tydus,” Quill kept his voice saccharine, “your offer is well met. When we last spoke, you seemed unsure of which titles were appropriate. Perhaps, in exchange, my appointment will assist _you_ in using the royal honorifics.”

The tension between them was intense as they both donned their politest smiles. _Who did I wrong in a past life to deserve Hyperion?_ Quill lamented. 

Quill dismissed himself, quickly trotting towards his friends. Orion had finally made good on his claim, cutting a small slit through his left eyebrow. Isabelle had a stormy look on her face as she watched Hyperion. Ares was blind to his sister’s ire, sapphire eyes sparkling. 

“You should’ve seen everyone’s faces when you mentioned Remus!” he said incredulously. “I thought Calliope would throw a fit.” 

“I was there, Ares,” Quill sighed. “I was literally standing right next to her.”

Isabelle tapped her chin thoughtfully. “I don’t think anyone has ever sworn before Remus,” she said. “At least, not during any royal ceremonies. It’s always been Echolyse.” 

Quill shrugged. “I suppose I’m the first of my people to do so.” The adrenaline of his coronation was starting to wear off. Quill resisted the feelings of doubt that were starting to creep inside of him. 

“So, are you His Majesty now?” Orion asked. “Or His Highness? His Royal Highness?”

“His Grace,” Isabelle supplied for him. Quill waved a hand vaguely in agreement. 

“That’s not as impressive as ‘majesty’,” Orion said, looking disappointed on Quill’s behalf, “but alas. Does that also make you … Quill Caedis?”

Quill wrinkled his nose at the proposed name. It sounded odd. “No, I’m still Quill Lycan. Non-royals can’t take the royal name. It’s only permitted if you’re marrying into the branch family.” 

Ares furrowed his brow. “How come Potentate Selene did, then? She was a Lazarus before.” 

“Who knows? I don’t intend to change my name, in any case.” 

Their amicable banter was interrupted by a woman that was nearly of a height with Ayden. She was dressed in casual armor, dark hair pulled back in a severe braid. A rounded shield with an impressive diameter was strapped to her back. Her height and her clothing weren’t what caught Quill’s attention, however. 

She was blue, with black horns that curved upwards. 

Quill felt his eyes widen as he took in her features. She certainly didn’t _look_ Eurydicean. How such an imposing woman was able to approach the four of them unnoticed was beyond him. Isabelle, Orion, and Ares seemed to be thinking the same thing.

The blue woman tapped her right hand against her heart, nodding at Quill. He stared up at her, dumbfounded. He probably looked like an idiot. 

“Many greetings,” the woman spoke Eurydicean with a heavy tongue. “My name is Astrid Thorfinndottir, from the Ninth Chiefdom of Tundra.”

“I … hello, Lady Astrid.” Quill composed himself quickly. He put on a diplomatic smile that would have had his mother gasping in approval. “Eurydice welcomes you.” 

A tall man, even taller than Astrid, stepped out from behind her. He was a vibrant blue, horns greater in size and far more winding. His white robes flowed easily with his movement. Gel had been used to slick back his dark hair. 

“This is Thorfinn Ragnarrson,” Astrid announced with pride, “one of the nine Great Chieftains of Tundra, and the greatest amongst all of them. He has come to seek audience with you, my queen, as well as the king of Eurydice if he is able.” 

Orion snorted. Quill placed his hands behind his back, giving him a one-fingered salute. 

“I’m not a queen, my lady,” Quill said crisply, “and by king, I presume you are referring to the Sovereign.” Astrid tipped her head, looking between him and Thorfinn Ragnarrson in confusion.

Thorfinn chuckled, inky eyes crinkling. “Do forgive her, Your Grace. Astrid is yet young. She still learns the ways of the world.” The man’s voice was a deep baritone, slow and measured. His Eurydicean flowed more naturally than Astrid’s.

_She’s young, and already towers over me? _Quill had heard of Tundra. It was a country in the southern parts of Boreas, bordering the Northern Siren Sea. He wasn’t sure who Astrid and Thorfinn were, but they were likely high-profile individuals in that nation. The man’s title of Great Chieftain sounded important.__

____

____

“What brings you to Eurydice, Lord Thorfinn?” Quill asked. Boreas was an isolated continent; Quill had never had cause to learn the protocol for addressing Great Chieftains. He hoped the Eurydicean honorifics would suffice. “The Northern Sea is not easy to navigate.” 

“A small matter for the titans of Tundra,” Thorfinn replied. “We are used to traversing harsh waters. It is the way of our people to tame the seas and oceans. But, I did not journey here to regale you with tales of sailing.” He looked around the cavernous cathedral, seemingly intrigued by the architecture. Those inky eyes studied Quill, before he nodded in satisfaction.

“Your country is a fascinating one, Your Grace,” Thorfinn stated. “I am a scholar, you see, and have longed to witness this interesting experiment for myself. A country, and a continent. Seven different kingdoms – each so different from the last - all eventually succumbing to the will of one throne. How … _astounding_. 

“Tundra is divided into nine chiefdoms, much like your regions. We’ve spent generations squabbling amongst ourselves.” Thorfinn eyed Quill’s diamond crown. “And yet, the one you call the First Sovereign united your realm.” 

“The kingdom wasn’t fully unified during the First Sovereign’s lifetime,” Quill corrected warily.

Thorfinn smiled. “There are many ways to extend a life.” He only shook his head at Quill’s raised brow. “I am but a scholar, Your Grace. I, too, seek to unite Tundra under one man. Perhaps even all of Boreas, in time. With such a … pleasant conclusion to your war, I thought to witness unity firsthand.” 

_Eurydice has more than its fair share of complications._ “I trust that the kingdom found you well.” 

“Oh, quite.” Thorfinn paused, contemplative. “This continent was once the center of trade and commerce. I would like to see it restored, for the benefit of both of our nations. Should Eurydice ever need a friend, know that Tundra will answer.” 

“You have my thanks, Lord Thorfinn.” Quill smiled at the titan. _Should Ayden be having this conversation?_ He wondered. He’d only been Potentate for an hour. It seemed a bit early to be agreeing to international deals with countries he knew little about. 

Thorfinn and Astrid bowed in that strange way – placing their hands over their hearts – before taking their leave. Quill watched them go, not sure of what had just happened. 

“Does anyone know what just happened?” Orion asked. “Because I sure don’t.” 

“I think I just made my first decision as Potentate,” Quill replied. 

They didn’t have long to dally on subject of the enigmatic Tundrans, as Ayden soon called for their return to the Palace. Quill was glad to hear it. He’d grown tired of the Iron Cathedral. He shook off the odd encounter, taking his place at Ayden’s side. They walked out of the cathedral together, into the cold air and dull sunlight.

The Ironhill was still filled with the noise of the spectators. Quill blinked as his gaze travelled over the writhing mass of people lining the streets. Many of them waved his family’s banners. Seeing them flying in the city had initially been disconcerting, but the black tower now brought him a sense of comfort. 

He and Ayden entered their vehicle, watching their subjects as they did so. Quill let a small smile grace his face as a young werewolf girl gazed at him with a star-struck expression. 

***

The wedding and coronation had been followed by a period of celebration. It had seemed that everyone had been holding their breath for three decades, and now they could finally breathe. Quill had gotten swept up in the festivities, but it was time for them to end. The Ironhill slowly grew quieter as people began to return to their homes. Quill watched another vehicle leave through the palace gates.

He stood at the base of the stairs, watching as many of the nobles left the Palace. Winter had begun in earnest. Many frowned as the snows fell, complaining of how it arrived much earlier than usual. Quill didn’t mind. He liked the snow; it reminded him of home. Everything was different, but at least the snow was the same. 

He’d said his goodbyes to Isabelle and Ares a few days prior. Isabelle was returning to Courtmere to continue her studies, and Ares would be going back to Starkhall. The Livingstones, too, had made their way to Stonerose not long after. Orion had joked of stealing away to another city as he’d climbed into an automobile with Corvus. 

The Lycans were leaving as well. They still had permission to stay a while longer, but Theron had cited the winter in the capital. If the Ironhill was growing this cold, then the roads in the Annex would surely be beleaguered by snow. 

Luna was bundled up, looking adorable with her displeased frown and her messy twin braids. Without Lorelei or their mother present, she’d been doing them herself. Quill felt a pang of loneliness at the thought of his old life in Lunares. 

“I can’t believe you’re married now,” Luna pouted. “Gross. How did you get married before Ezra?” 

Quill laughed, ruffling her brown hair. “That’s how life is, sometimes,” he said softly. “Be a good girl, Luna.” 

She nodded eagerly. “I will. I can’t wait to go tell Viscardi everything. But first, I’ll stand outside of his door, turn off his lights, and leave.” 

_Little siblings should have no rights,_ Quill thought with a fond smile. “I’m sure he’s already prepared for your onslaught. Vis would make a great Master of Intelligence, you know.” 

“Maybe. If he knew how to shut up.”

Quill hugged her then, and she returned it twice as fiercely. He breathed in her scent one more time, wondering if he’d find traces of Beowulf Tower. Of his mother’s gentle face, Lorelei’s smile, Ezra’s kind eyes, Viscardi’s scowl. The sounds of the forest; the smoke from the nearby town; the bright stars against the mountains of Lunares. 

All he detected was the chill of the Ironhill. 

Luna clambered into the vehicle, pressing her face against the glass. She waved though the automobile wasn’t moving, her little hands clearing the fog on the window. 

Theron approached Quill, amber eyes thoughtful. Quill met his father’s gaze, wondering what he had to say. His wedding gift to him had almost felt like an olive branch, and Ayden had yet to be particularly vicious, but Quill was still a bit disgruntled that Theron had traded him for a governorship. 

“That was an interesting stunt you pulled at the coronation,” Theron said, giving him a considering look. “No matter. You are in a position that few werewolves have ever dreamed of. The first of our people. Now that you have the Sovereign’s ear, the future of Eurydice is in your hands.” 

He glanced at the diadem of serpents resting on Quill’s head, expression indecipherable. “You may bear the sigil of the Caedis family, but do not forget who you are. My son, a Lycan of Beowulf Tower. The champion of the werewolves will be neither broken nor timid. Do not fail.”

With those gentle words, Theron turned and followed after Luna. Quill watched him walk away, his father’s retreating figure a familiar sight. Quill’s crown suddenly felt much heavier than before. It wasn’t even his official one – he’d worn the informal diadem for his goodbyes. Memories of the silence in the cathedral after he’d spoken came to him, but Quill pushed them aside with thoughts of that little werewolf girl. She’d looked at him with stars in her eyes. 

Quill began to walk up the stairs leading to the main building. The burly guard – that ever-present shadow - followed him, steps silent in the snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spotlight: Echolysian Faith 
> 
> The Echolysian Faith originated in the historical lands of the Kingdom of Coven, before spreading to the rest of Eurydice. Echolysian beliefs are so thoroughly engrained in the culture and politics of the country that the Grand Seer has the power to challenge and even overrule the Sovereign at times. Echolyse is believed to be a goddess centered on wisdom, guidance, knowledge, learning, secrets, and creativity. She has temples across all of Eurydice, and is often depicted with a raven and a white tiger. The Arcanum Antiquis is her holy book. It has two major sections, Tribus and Septem.  
> The Grand Seer is the head of the Echolysian Faith, and is seen as the conduit of Echolyse. They are chosen from amongst the Council of the Seer, and can also be unseated by them. The current Grand Seer is Calliope II. Every five years, clerics from across Eurydice venture to Courtmere to either choose new Council members or campaign for themselves during the Quinquennium.


	17. What Our Future Holds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the sun sets, the moon rises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Calliope: :)  
> Quill: Fuck the church.  
> Calliope: >:\  
> Also, I did some sword research and learned how big claymores are. So, me saying that Ayden keeps his at his side is inaccurate because they go across the back. Just ... just pretend that claymores are smaller. 👁👄👁

Mia Aragona  
The Ironhill, 28 War

***

The stew simmered cheerfully as Mia quenched the flames of the stove. The unit she’d once shared with her grandfather in the row of terraced houses was just the way she liked it. Warm, gently lit, and smelling of food. 

She hummed softly as she completed the rest of her household duties, swinging her hips in a little dance. Outside, vehicles drove slowly through the silently-falling snow. Though the city grew cold around this time, the snows didn’t usually start until the new month. This year had proved an interesting one.

 _With all of the commotion in the city, the gods must have wanted us to settle down,_ Mia thought with amusement. 

The royal marriage and the coronation of the new Potentate had taken place over a fortnight ago. Mia had watched both events through the Palace’s specula, with the other kitchenhands. The wedding had been magical, with many of her fellow workers sighing over Sovereign Ayden’s dark hair and smoldering red eyes. Mia hadn’t been on hand during the reception, but she’d heard that Potentate Quill had been dazzling. Many of the girls had even giggled over the attentions of one Orion Livingstone, though Mia hadn’t met the mage. 

A glance at her clock told her it was time to leave. Mia wrapped herself up nice and warm, wrangling her red mane into a comfortable hat. She donned her sturdiest boots and gloves, before transferring all of her stew into a cold-resistant receptacle. 

Normally, Mia would have saved some food for her grandfather to eat. It was strange to be alone. She found herself cooking for two out of habit, only to feel sad when she realized that she was only feeding herself. Perhaps that was why she enjoyed working in the kitchens of the Redfyre Palace – preparing food for numerous people felt almost natural to her. 

Mia clutched the food close to her chest, soaking in its warmth. She walked as quickly through her area of the eastern Ironhill as she dared, towards where her friend Farrah lived. Mia did not want to linger outside in this weather, but she was not particularly fond of the notion of dropping her cargo. She’d splurged and added beef and potatoes, as it was a special day. The Grand Seer had returned to Courtmere, and would be announcing the new year. Mia and her friends had taken bets on what Grand Seer Calliope’s message would entail. 

_Calliope has had a busy month,_ Mia thought as she climbed the narrow steps of Farrah’s brownstone. _A wedding, a coronation, and the new year’s announcement all happened so close together. The poor woman._

She knocked on Farrah’s door, smiling when her friend appeared soon after. Farrah grinned broadly, ushering Mia into the small apartment. Mia had met Farrah back when they were schoolgirls. Farrah and her family were magicless elves from Sharna, a city near the Sanguis-Briar border. Life wasn’t always the easiest for those without elemental magic, and they had settled in the eastern Ironhill to seek better prospects. 

“Who is that, Farrah?” Miss Aisha called from the kitchen. Her Briarean accent was still thick despite so many years in the capital. 

“It is only Mia, mama!” Farrah responded. She’d lost her accent years ago, sounding much like all of the people their age that were from the Ironhill.

Mia neatly lined her boots along the wall, trotted into the kitchen, and dropped off her stew. Miss Aisha smiled warmly at her, brushing her loose headscarf aside as she stacked several flatbreads from the stove onto a plate. Mia loved Farrah’s home as well.

“I brought some beef stew,” Mia said, uncovering the dish. “It will go nicely with the bread, I think.” 

Miss Aisha nodded gratefully, calling for Farrah to come help her in the kitchen. Farrah groaned dramatically, dragging her feet towards her mother’s side. She and Mia watched in admiration as Aisha flipped the flatbread expertly, cutlery forgotten in the wake of her experience. 

“I saw many shoes in the doorway,” Mia said, helping Farrah grab plates from their drawers. “Are the others here yet? I want to know how many to grab.” 

“Jasmine and Dadian are here, but my father is out driving the cab,” Farrah replied. “More people still remain in the city than usual, and he’s hoping to earn a few more crowns from them.” She smirked good-naturedly. “There were so many tourists flooding into the Ironhill, and most of them had no idea how to navigate. They couldn’t tell Great Boulevard apart from the other streets, even though many of them are named. I’ll bet you fifty lyres that they expected a fantasy city instead of such a crowded one.” 

“Unless they snuck into the Iron City,” Mia joked. “Then they can use the different manors to tell where they are. ‘Take a left at the massive manor. No, not the white one – the other white one’.”

Their laughter drew the attention of Jasmine, another of Mia’s friends. The werewolf waved eagerly at Mia. Her fluffy hair cascaded in a great cloud behind her, yellow eyes bright. 

“Thought you’d gotten lost in the snow,” Jasmine chirped, poking her head into the kitchen. “It took you long enough, Mia. Dadian and I have been waiting _years_.” 

“By years,” said Dadian, the werewolf-commonfolk hybrid in their group, “she means we’ve been here about ten minutes.” 

Dadian fiddled with the old radio in Farrah’s family room. They didn’t have personal specula, and none of them wanted to venture out to the nearest square that would project the happenings in Courtmere. They would be listening to the Grand Seer using the contraption. Dadian was skilled with machinery, always talking of how he’d one day be a great mechanic and join the Garrison. Mia was glad that they’d been too young to join back when the war was in full swing. The thought of losing any of her friends made her heart clench. 

“Is your mother still in the shop?” Mia asked Jasmine. 

The bubbly werewolf nodded, helping Mia and Farrah transport the food from the kitchen. “She’ll have it closed up by tonight. I still can’t get over those four children that payed a fifty-crown for our cloaks. I wish I could drop money like that!” 

Mia, Farrah, and Jasmine settled the food atop a low table. Miss Aisha took a seat on a chair, but not before placing some hot tea within their reach. Dadian clicked in triumph as he accomplished whatever task he’d been working on, tinny sounds from the radio filling up the room. It wouldn’t be long before they heard the announcement. 

Mia poured herself a cup, breathing in the scent of the spices. She’d grown so used to Briarean food and drink that she sometimes forgot that they weren’t native to the Ironhill. The Sovereign and the old Potentate were both fond of Briar’s cuisine, given their upbringing. According to Miss Aisha, their exotic palate had inspired a small culinary revolution in the capital. In any case, Mia wasn’t one to say no to learning new dishes. 

They chatted amicably while they waited. Jasmine flopped onto the bright rugs as she described her latest romantic woes. She’d fallen for some young man in the Military Police that apparently patrolled her streets. Mia and Farrah laughed, but Dadian only rolled his eyes at her antics. 

“He’s just so handsome!” Jasmine whined, fluffing her brown curls. “I’ve debated spilling a drink on his uniform so that he has to buy some fabric from the store. Wouldn’t that be a wonderful story for our children?” She sighed wistfully. “I could tell them all about how I met their father.” 

“First you have to meet him,” Mia chided. “Just go speak to the man. He walks by your store fairly regularly. What’s the worst that could happen?” 

“I can’t stress enough how much I’m unable to do that,” Jasmine said. “He’s a vampire. I don’t even know if he’d want a relationship with a werewolf. Rejection can be avoided if you don’t talk to them at all.” 

“That’s rubbish. You’re a wonderful girl, Jasmine. He’d see it in no time.”

Jasmine lay against Farrah, nibbling on a flatbread. “That’s easy for you to say. You’re commonfolk. Everyone loves commonfolk.”

Mia shrugged. Hers was often the fascination of the other races. With their inability to perform magic or breathe underwater, and their lack of unique physical abilities, it sometimes felt like commonfolk were looked upon in a patronizing way. Many stories written by non-commonfolk authors from Mia’s youth often featured a commonfolk side-character for comedic purposes. This was thankfully less prevalent in commonfolk tales, where most of the characters were, well, commonfolk. It was a little uncomfortable, being viewed as a primitive person that needed to be guided by their betters, but Mia had learned to ignore it. 

“I once had a man engage me by mentioning how he ‘loved dogs’,” Jasmine was saying. “Did he really think that was a compliment? I swear, the nerve of some people.”

“Well, the Potentate’s a werewolf now,” Farrah offered. “So maybe people won’t be able to say things like that anymore.” 

“I hope not.” 

Dadian sprawled out on the floor, idly watching the ceiling. He looked at the girls with boredom apparent in his golden-brown eyes. 

“Do you think the royal vampires are miffed that there’s a werewolf in their family?” he asked. “There’s never been one, as far as I know. The Sovereign might even have some hybrid children. Isn’t that a riot?” He laughed. “There goes centuries of vampire blood.” 

Mia gave him a considering look. She, Farrah, and Jasmine had befriended Dadian during their school days because he’d struggled to find a place for himself. As a hybrid, he’d been too werewolf for the commonfolk and not werewolf enough for the werewolves. She wondered how the children of the Sovereign and the new Potentate would grow up, if they decided to have any in the first place. 

As if reading her mind, Farrah spoke up. “Tell us about the Palace now that there’s a new Potentate, Mia!” she exclaimed. “Surely you’ve seen him around?”

Mia shrugged again. Things in the Palace hadn’t changed much, at least from a servant’s perspective. She’d chat with Princess Esmerelda whenever they encountered each other. Prince Lucien would flush every time he saw her. Mia suspected that he harboured feelings for her, but she politely ignored his floundering to spare him from heartache. She would periodically catch glimpses of the Sovereign and he’d trade a few words with her, but that was the most interaction they had. And the Potentate…

“I don’t know,” Mia finally replied. “Things aren’t _that_ different. I don’t really see the Potentate too much. I’m not on his staff, and I don’t have any reason to venture up to the royal wings.” 

Farrah and Jasmine drooped in disappointment. Dadian scoffed from his position on the ground. 

“You watch,” he said, puffing up, “one day, I’ll join the Garrison and become a General. Maybe even the Master of Defense. We’d have _two_ werewolves running the kingdom.”

“You’re not even a werewolf,” Jasmine reminded him. 

Dadian’s eyes darkened. “I might as well be,” he muttered bitterly.

Jasmine snickered. “Be that as it may. You’ll be slumming it with the Military Police instead, no doubt.” 

“Like that vampire that makes you so shaky in the knees?” Dadian retorted. 

Farrah and Mia guffawed as Jasmine and Dadian bared their teeth at the other. Such harmless banter was common for them. Mia took a bite of stew, pleased at the hearty taste. She’d tried a new recipe from Stepes, and was glad it was a success. 

Miss Aisha waved her hands excitedly, gesturing to the radio. “It’s time for the announcement,” she said, turning the dial to clear up the static. 

They all clambered around the small device as the voice of Grand Seer Calliope rang through. Mia fidgeted with excitement. _This is always one of my favourite parts of the year,_ she thought. _Everyone is at home, if they can afford to be. We can sit with family and friends, and learn what our future holds together._

Calliope, verbose as ever, began describing the events of the last year. Mia held her breath as she reached the surrender of the Insurgents, and the reveal of the Sovereign’s new spouse. Farrah and Jasmine squabbled over the last flatbread during Calliope’s recap, earning irate looks from Miss Aisha. 

“The Gray Era is no more,” Calliope said theatrically. “It was a time of illness, of weakness, of division. It passed, and in its darkness gave rise to the War Era. And now, the war is no more. Eurydice shall once again bask in the sunlight. We are one nation, unified. We must look forward, for our salvation does not lie in the past.”

“Damn, woman,” Dadian complained, “get on with it. We’re not getting any younger.” 

Mia shushed him. She missed a portion of Calliope’s words as Dadian spoke, and reprimanded him with a glare. He pulled an unapologetic face at her, but the two of them quickly returned their attention to the radio.

“It is time to close this chapter,” Calliope said. They all quietened, anticipation in the air. “After twenty-eight long years, the War Era has come to an end.”

They all exchanged eager glances. Miss Aisha tried to turn the dial on the radio again, but it was already as high as it could go. They all squealed in unison as the elven woman fussed with the knobs. Calliope had paused in her ministrations, likely reacting to the crowd before her in Courtmere.

“Oh, it’s time for a new Era!” Farrah said, delighted. 

“That means that marrying an Insurgent wasn’t an awful solution!” Jasmine stated, pumping her fist. “All the people that grumbled about Potentate Quill can shove off now.” 

“Maybe this Lycan boy is what the realm needs after so many years,” Miss Aisha said softly, returning to her perch. She refilled her cup with tea, gazing out of the window at the barely-visible Hill of Iron. 

Mia wondered if the royal family was watching this as well, and if they were just as excited as she was. _I’ve lived long enough to see the changing of the Eras!_ She thought of all the people who could not say the same, but shook her head. Perhaps, things would be okay. 

Calliope continued after the din from the crowd had subsided. “This new Era shall be one of greatness, of light, of unity. We shall begin anew, and rise from the ashes of death and disease. This new Era shall be called-”

Mia was bouncing on the balls of her feet. She knelt, leaning so far forward that she feared she might topple over onto Dadian. The hybrid was so enraptured that he likely wouldn’t have even noticed.

“-the Cardinal Era.” 

There was a silence as they digested Calliope’s words. Mia had never been one for words and meanings, preferring to chat amongst her friends or run around the fields rather than copy letters from a board. 

“Cardinal?” Farrah said, frowning. “Like the bird? The little red one?”

“It sounds important,” Dadian said, shrugging. “It’s not as glorious a name as Fire, Ambition, or Gold, but it’s certainly nothing to sneeze at.” 

Jasmine lay on her stomach, swinging her legs back and forth. She looked at the radio thoughtfully, listening to Calliope’s last words. The chatter from Courtmere could be heard from the background. 

“It looks like the Sovereign and Potentate are going to have their hands busy,” Jasmine mused. “Delivering all of the greatness that the Grand Seer just promised of them doesn’t sound like a ride on the Fair Serpent.” She laughed, flipping over. “No pressure.” 

Mia watched her friends, feeling oddly introspective. The Fire Era had seen the creation of the kingdom, and it had greatly expanded until the entire continent of Orpheus was conquered by the Ambition Era. Eurydice had extended its reach to other continents throughout the Gold Era, but it had all nearly come crashing down during the Gray and War Eras. 

_And now, the War Era is no more,_ she thought. _In a few days, we’ll enter the Cardinal Era. Calliope’s words are promising, but vague. What will our future hold?_

Mia remembered the gasps from the kitchenhands when Quill Lycan had been coronated. He’d stood proudly in view of the people of Eurydice – orb and sceptre gleaming, the crown shining above his head – and he’d sworn before Remus in a cathedral dedicated to Echolyse. 

She glanced at the people before her once more, feeling warmed by their light conversations. She couldn’t imagine a better group to welcome the new year and the new Era with. Her eyes drifted to the silhouette of the Redfyre Palace, the darkness and the snow partially obscuring its structures. She relaxed against the table, half-full cup of tea in her hands. 

“Dear Cardinal Era,” Mia whispered, softly so that no one would hear her, “please, be kind to us and to Eurydice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so concludes Act I: End of the War. The Wolffs are broken, the mages are timid, the realm is whole, and the Red Throne has both hands. Great! Right? Well, the thing about wars is that they leave a bunch of problems in their wake. Especially a civil war in a country that isn't always the most equitable. The rating will go up now that the honeymoon phase is over, and I'll probably get a bit more adventurous in my writing.


	18. Here Be Dragons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ayden meets a familiar face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: My attempts at politics and economics. Just tryna set up Act II. I've realized how awkward having a vaguely absolute monarchy in the 20th century is. I can’t say I know a whole lot about this stuff, so if my discussions regarding the war's aftermath aren’t realistic then … uh … my bad.  
> Also, Eras go straight to 1. No 0 Cardinal.

Ayden Caedis  
The Ironhill, 1 Cardinal

***

 _So, this is the man that started the war,_ Ayden thought. _I see why Theron Lycan was eager to relieve the Annex of its former lieges._

Silas Wolff stood before him. The man was in chains as he knelt in the center of the throne room, eyes enraged. Eurydice had moved past the merriment of the last days of the War Era. Ayden had sent for the Wolff patriarch, citing that his crimes were above those that could be punished by one Governor. Theron had been pleased to oblige. 

Ayden leaned forward on the Red Throne, idly running a finger against the nearest gold encasement. The red flames blazed within their hollow cage. They’d weakened when the last Eurydicean dragon died, back during the Ambition Era. Ayden sometimes wondered what the Red Throne was like before it was wrapped in gold; when the flames rose almost as high as the ceilings. 

_It would’ve certainly struck fear into those looking upon it. Maybe then Wolff wouldn’t be such a dick._

He leaned back on the throne, feeling the warmth of the fire through the cold metal. Several seats flanked Ayden, each bearing a member of the Inner Circle. The palace guards stood at attention along the walls, poised to strike at the former Governor. 

“Lord Wolff,” Ayden drawled, “you seem to be forgetting that your trial for high treason awaits. You may have nothing left to lose, but the same does not apply to your family.” 

The man had been combative since he’d arrived in the Palace. Ayden had heard that the journey through Stepes had been equally tiresome. Wolff had been administered several doses of moonpotion to stay his werewolf abilities, yet he still remained recalcitrant. Their continued interaction had put Ayden in a foul mood. Wolff glowered at him, fierce despite the thick restraints. Ayden was almost impressed. 

“You and your wretched bloodline should have ended here,” Silas snarled, “in this very room.” He laughed hoarsely, a haunting sound. “Caedises and their gold. How I’ve longed to see your golden blood run down your precious throne.” 

Arion stiffened at Ayden’s right. Beside him, Ayden didn’t miss the way Hyperion’s hands ghosted over his firearm. Quill was at Ayden’s left, seated near Reyna and Fiona. All of them radiated tension, but Quill seemed the most agitated. Ayden kept himself relaxed, not wanting to give Wolff the satisfaction of seeing him flinch. 

“The war is done, Lord Wolff,” Ayden said. “There is a new Era.”

“One filled with cowards that seek the embrace of their enemies.” Silas sneered at Quill, making the tense man even more rigid. “And here sits the ilk of the biggest coward of them all. An obedient lapdog. Tell me, _Your Grace_ ,” he enunciated the honorific derisively, “do you like your new master? Does the vampire reward you when you perform your little tricks?” 

Quill looked like he meant to respond, but Ayden stopped him with a hand. He narrowed his eyes at Silas, choosing his words carefully. 

“You’re speaking to your Potentate,” Ayden warned. 

“Am I? I must have confused him with the other Lycan thieves,” Silas answered blithely. 

“Do not provoke me, Wolff.” 

Silas grinned, scorn dripping from his expression. “Yes, little serpent,” he hissed, “bare those Caedis fangs. That did little to stop me from cutting down your father.” 

Wolff was bluffing. Ayden knew he was. The man had not been sighted on Tyrant’s March during the Siege. He’d only arrived after Damien Caedis had been pronounced dead. Ayden kept his grip on the throne lax, his face neutral. His mood blackened anyway. 

“Take him away,” Ayden said to the captain of the guards. “Send him to the deepest cells. I want several guards on him at all times.”

Silas cackled at Ayden’s orders. “Assigning so many fine guards to a man in his old age? Your Majesty, do I scare you so much? I am but a grandfather, expelled from mine own keep. The whore at your side can attest to that.” 

Ayden rose, regarding Silas with indifference. 

“We’re finished here,” he said, watching as the werewolf was dragged away. 

_I could have the entire Garrison on him and it wouldn’t matter,_ Ayden thought as he listened to Silas’ curses. _I still will not be able to relax while’s he’s in the Ironhill._

He and the Inner Circle filed into the war room soon after. Ayden had called for a meeting, knowing that Silas’ arrival in the capital would be a topic of concern. That, amongst others. The Sovereign took a seat at the head of the table, eyes travelling over the small figurines as everyone took their places. 

Arion sat at his right once more, with Hyperion to his left. Reyna and Fiona took up chairs in the middle, while Quill sat at the opposite head. Even though they’d been wed for over two months now, Ayden still found it strange to have that space occupied. Ayden grimaced as his eyes travelled to the stacks of paper each Master had brought with them to the meeting. 

“Gods,” Arion sighed, “no wonder the Insurgency lasted as long as it did. Silas Wolff is exactly the kind of man that would start a war for the hell of it.” 

Ayden exhaled. “Wolff is a traitor, but we need to be careful how we handle him.” He ran his hand along Legionnaire’s hilt as it rested against the table. “The last time the crown alone put a prominent werewolf on trial, Eurydice fought itself for an Era.” 

“I doubt my father would try and avenge Lord Wolff,” Quill said dryly. 

“No, but others might.” Ayden levelled his Circle with a flat look. “Though I’d like nothing more than to put Wolff to death, it would be in the best interest of the crown to try him before a proper court of law.” 

Reyna glanced at the table’s illustration of the Annex. “What of the other Wolffs?” she asked. “They are still in Westedge.” 

Ayden frowned. “They will stay there for now. Julius Wolff will be sent for once his father’s trial is concluded.” _I don’t want more Wolffs in the city than is strictly necessary._

“And Lady Dionysia?” 

“She will be accounted for,” Ayden replied. “In time. There are more pressing concerns.” 

“That still leaves the Wolff children,” Quill said. “Sakura Wolff is my father’s ward, but she has three younger siblings.” 

Hyperion scoffed. “The entire Wolff Clan should be exterminated,” he said darkly. “This will only fester if we leave them alive. The realm will suffer should they try and reclaim the Annex once our defences are lowered.” 

“They’re children!” Quill protested. “The eldest is scarcely older than the prince and princess.” 

“Children that will grow up to be beasts. If you strike a pup, it will no doubt bite you once it becomes an adult.”

Quill bristled, gearing himself to retaliate. Hyperion, for his part, was prepared for a verbal spar. Ayden closed his eyes briefly. The Inner Circle had held few discussions since the new year, but nearly all of them featured a disagreement between those two. It wasn’t always Hyperion that triggered them – Quill was equally guilty. His Potentate and Master of Defense’s inexplicable animosity towards each other was tolerable on a good day, but today was not a good day. 

“Enough,” Ayden said, stopping the burgeoning argument. Quill and Hyperion obeyed, though neither of them looked pleased. Ayden did not have the patience to care. 

He instead turned towards Arion. “What news from Stepes?”

The Suzerain had been working with the Skyreaches since the surrender of the Insurgents. Stepes sustained the most damage during the war. Eurydice had seen a brief famine during the early War Era, after the kingdom had been cut off from the agricultural region. His father had quelled it using resources from the remaining regions – and the Liberation of Homestead had given them access to its rich fields once again – but it was not at its previous capacity. 

“The eastern half has been adjusting well,” Arion replied. “Once winter is over, we can begin farming in earnest once again. I can’t say the same for the western side. Lord Skyreach informed me that the lands are not yet fit for agriculture.” 

Ayden nodded. Many of the farmlands west of Homestead had been burned during the Insurgents’ retreat. If they proved infertile, the crown would need to find another use for them. He inspected reports from the different regions, searching for a temporary solution. Several documents from Sanguis looked promising. Ayden reached for them, quickly scanning their contents. 

_Perhaps I should introduce some factories in Western Stepes to pick up the economic slack,_ he mused. _Sanguis has an abundance of machinery. If I relocate workers there…_ Ayden shook his head. _No, I don’t want to do that yet. Sanguis has already lost some of its population – both from recruitment into the Garrison and migration to the neighboring regions._

“Hyperion,” Ayden said, “which Garrison bases require the most reinforcement?”

The man blinked, considering Ayden’s question. “Many troops are still stationed in and around Lupus Crossing,” Hyperion finally answered. “I have a number spread out across Stepes and Sanguis as well.” 

“Reduce the Sanguis divisions, but keep the rest active. Some can be transferred to the Covert Operations under Reyna.” _We can provide incentive for the rest to either work in the fields,_ he looked at the bear figurine, _or in the theoretical factories. Once the Annex is stable enough, we can do the same for it. I’d need Theron’s confirmation before then._

“Your Majesty,” Hyperion said, “I don’t think it is wise to weaken the Garrison so soon. The war only just ended.”

“It’s not being weakened. Your efforts in restructuring the Garrison are unparalleled,” _after my actions almost wrecked it years ago_ , “but now it can be utilized for other purposes. In any case, I’ve heard that the aircrafts are progressing smoothly. That will likely require more of your attention.” 

Hyperion frowned. “I doubt there are enough aircrafts to create a station requiring a General. The Navy’s dreadnoughts are already approved by General Trident, but General Lazarus’ reports on the military tanks are promising. Perhaps it would be in the best interest of the realm if the present size of the Garrison remained.” 

Ayden shook his head. “No,” he stated plainly. “Rebuilding Stepes is a higher priority. Stabilizing the Annex as well, for reparations.” Hyperion yielded with a nod. 

Ayden glanced at Quill. Having the Lycans governing the Annex had proved useful. He wouldn’t say he completely trusted his husband’s family, but it was good to have a clan whose best interests lay with their continued allegiance. It left him with one less region to worry about while he dealt with transitioning from wartime to peacetime. 

“Lady Fiona,” Ayden said, looking towards the elf, “how fares the treasury?”

“The main branch in Ancient fares well,” she answered, “no doubt from investing in the crown’s victory. The Aurum Bank's tributaries survive in part from the regions that declared for the Impasse Treaty. Be that as it may, I would advise the Impasse be nullified within the coming months.” 

Ayden sighed. He’d wanted to dismantle the Impasse Treaty as soon as he’d taken the throne, preventing regions from opting out of future civil conflicts. The war would have ended a lot sooner if three of the seven regions had not decided to ignore it. However, wars were expensive – and Coven, the Seas, and Ancient had been willing to pay to avoid one. He wasn’t the Master of Finance, but even Ayden knew that it had been a better decision to leave it standing. 

“I agree,” Ayden said, “but that begs the question of Eurydice’s changing demographics. Lady Livingstone has been reporting a rise in Coven’s population. With so many people flocking to her region, it may be better to let it remain a while longer to raise more funds.”

“That might not be an issue,” Reyna hummed. Ayden motioned for her to continue. “Immigration to Eurydice is on the rise.” 

Ayden furrowed his brow. “Why?” he asked. “We were at war not long ago. I assumed there would be a lag in movement.” 

“The realm has been settling down since Lord Lycan took Scarwood,” Reyna answered. “Before that, the lull in combat made Eurydice more attractive. Strategically controlling the influx of people from other countries could help balance the financial demands placed on Coven and the Seas.” 

Ayden nodded. Such matters fell under the hands of the Master of Society, but that position had been vacant since his father’s reign. The Inner Circle had adapted to fill the gap during the war, but its absence was now being sorely felt. He might as well broach the subject, now that they were all gathered. 

“We need a Master of Society,” Ayden said plainly. “Many of these issues would be lessened if the crown had someone filling that role.” 

The others nodded in agreement, with the exception of Quill. The werewolf looked thoughtful, before quietly speaking. 

“Perhaps,” Quill offered, “we might not.” 

Ayden raised a brow at him. “Explain.” 

Quill shifted uncomfortably as all eyes fell on him. “It’s just … I haven’t really done much as Potentate. And,” he bit his lip hesitantly, “these are things we should already be doing as leaders.”

Unsurprisingly, Hyperion had a response to Quill’s proposition. “Running the realm is not easy. We need a complete Inner Circle.”

“If we divide the position between all of us, it wouldn’t be an issue.” Quill, to his credit, remained steady. “We have three Masters, a Suzerain, a Potentate, and a Sovereign. Not to mention all of the six Governors. I’d even be willing to take on the tasks myself.”

“How noble, Your Grace,” Hyperion muttered. 

Quill frowned at Hyperion’s dry tone. “The realm went years without one,” he defended. 

“They weren’t exactly enjoyable years,” Arion interjected. 

“The lack of the fourth Master didn’t make the war worse than it already was.” The Suzerain’s inclusion only served to strengthen Quill’s resolve. 

Reyna watched Quill impassively. “Perhaps, Your Grace, you are forgetting _why_ the war occurred in the first place.”

Quill bristled, but surrendered. Her reminder of the war’s origins – of the fact that the Insurgency was attributed to his people – sufficed in quelling him. He looked to Ayden for support, and Ayden felt slightly guilty for what he was about to do. Ayden had heard how skilled Lilith von Drake had been with battle strategies, with many saying that she would have made a fine Master of Defense. At the end of the day, however, she performed the duties of a Potentate and not a Master. Quill would be no different.

“I understand your argument,” Ayden said slowly, “but I respectfully disagree. There are four Masters for a reason. Your insights are very valuable, Quill. As Potentate.” 

Quill’s crestfallen look was quickly replaced by an indifferent one. Ayden wasn’t overly fond of pulling rank over the Inner Circle, but he wanted to conclude this conversation with minimal squabbling. Hyperion preened from his seat, while Reyna gave Quill a considering glance. 

“I suspected this issue would be brought up sooner or later,” Fiona said. “Though I did not expect it to be today. Be that as it may. I’ve a list of suitable people, however incomplete.”

She procured her list, casting it towards Ayden with a subtle gust of air magic. Ayden’s eyes roved over it slowly, listening as the Circle discussed potential Masters. Quill remained silent. Ayden recognized a sulk when he saw one. Anyone that could live through Lucien’s moodiness could handle a sullen werewolf.

Ayden paused, staring at the name on top of the list. 

“ _Lyra Livingstone?_ ” he questioned, gazing at Fiona. “Would she even accept the position? My parents executed hers.” 

Fiona scoffed. “Sirius and Andromeda Livingstone were traitors. She’s lucky your father allowed her to keep her lands. She’s a woman grown now, besides, and has been governing Coven for decades. I’m not much fond of her, but I will admit that she carried her region well.”

“I will … consider it,” Ayden said. Lady Livingstone was not always the easiest Governor to interact with. That being said, she was one of the better options. She’d certainly managed to restore Coven’s fragile economy after it had experienced the Second and Third Mage Uprisings in short succession. Ayden added this to his growing list of tasks. 

Containing the Wolffs, fixing Stepes, negating the Impasse Treaty, completing the Inner Circle, and monitoring the Annex under its new lieges. Gods, Ayden needed a drink. Something stiff. _Perhaps it’s not too late to restart the war._

“There’s one more thing,” Arion said, twirling the bear of Stepes in his hands. 

“What is it?” Ayden asked. He looked at the spinning figurine. “Is it relating to Stepes?” 

Arion nodded. “The Invasion of Stepes introduced a new status quo, one that Lord Lycan disrupted when he pulled his troops.”

They all waited for him to continue. Not even Quill could hide his interest. 

“Arion,” Ayden sighed. “Get on with it.” 

The elf smirked at Ayden’s impatience. He soon grew serious once again. “Many towns lie between Lupus Crossing and Homestead. With the reunification of Eurydice, there are people that have found themselves with both Stepen _and_ Annexian heritage. It seems like they’re not mixing very well with the native Stepes crowd now that those lands are no longer Insurgent-occupied.” 

Ayden linked his fingers together, contemplating. “What has been Lord Skyreach’s response?” 

“None, yet,” Arion grimaced. “We haven’t gotten very far in our discussions, but I believe he plans to clear the towns. At the very least, he means to expel the ethnic Annexians.” 

“What are the people’s races?” Quill asked. 

Arion shrugged. “Many werewolves,” he answered. “Commonfolk, too. And a sizeable amount of their hybrids, if that is relevant.”

Quill nodded. “In that case, then perhaps the Lycans can assist? It could be the first step in mending the relationship between the Annex and Stepes.” 

“We can mend their relationship after we’ve mended Stepes,” Hyperion drawled. “This is happening on Skyreach lands; we should let the Skyreaches handle it.” 

Ayden ran a hand through his hair. He leaned against one arm, flipping through papers with the other. He considered the different options. He liked Quill’s idea of involving the Lycans, but Hyperion was prudent in the observation that the Skyreach Clan would object to meddling from another region. Of course, that went without considering the actual people that they were disputing. Their lives would be impacted by which Governor was given control over them. 

“The Lycans and Skyreaches will work together,” Ayden decided. Quill looked triumphant, “with assistance from the crown. They might govern them, but both regions are still legally mine.”

_The Wolffs, the Impasse Treaty, Stepes, the Annex, the Inner Circle, and now this. Make that two drinks._

After a few more words, Ayden dismissed the meeting. Hyperion sauntered out, soon followed by Reyna. Fiona and Arion were next. Ayden expected Quill to vacate the room as well, and looked up in surprise when he saw the werewolf still seated.

“What?” Ayden asked. He cringed at his own snappy tone. He really needed to relax. 

“I…,” Quill fidgeted, before his voice strengthened, “I want to know how you plan to handle the werewolf situation in the west.”

Ayden shrugged. “I don’t have a plan. I only just learned about it.” 

“I’d like to journey there,” Quill said, “to the towns Arion was referencing. Perhaps I’d be of more use beyond the capital. As Potentate, of course.” 

Ayden regarded Quill quietly. The Lycans had kept their word thus far, keeping the Annex united under the Red Throne. With that being said, Ayden wasn’t sure he was comfortable with the thought of Quill travelling unsupervised. It wasn’t necessarily because he didn’t _trust_ the man – he just needed more time to gauge him.

“You haven’t expressed interest in leaving the Ironhill before,” Ayden stalled.

“I’m expressing it now.”

Ayden stood and stretched, feeling his muscles loosening after so much time spent sitting. Quill watched him, awaiting his response. He had one prepared, though he doubted Quill would like it.

“I’ll think about it.”

Quill frowned. “But-”

“Take that for now, Quill,” Ayden sighed. “I can’t give you a definite answer at this point.”

He watched as Quill swallowed his protests, instead nodding. He rose from his seat, offering a polite goodbye. Ayden watched as his husband exited the war room, leaving him alone. He massaged his temples tiredly. The Cardinal Era was proving itself quite tedious. 

_Here be dragons,_ Ayden thought. _Make that three drinks. Or five._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Quill just wants something to do, but Ayden’s workaholic ass keeps hogging everything. It's funny because sim-Quill has the workaholic trait, but sim-Ayden doesn't.


	19. No Place for a Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To tame a wolf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I downloaded Game of Thrones Conquest. My villagers are so cute 🥺. I can’t protect them all.

Sakura Wolff  
Westedge, 1 Cardinal

***

It had been a fine summer’s day. The birds chirped musically, a slow breeze carrying the scent of her mother’s garden through the air. Sakura had looked outside of her window at the gathered vassal troops, challenging herself to identify the clans using their sigils and colors. She’d managed to get through half of them before blue and gray smoke filled the sky. Everyone had suddenly drawn their weapons, their screams echoing across the yard of Scarwood Hold. 

Sakura shuddered as she recalled what happened next. She and her family had been captured, separated, and trapped in the dungeons. She’d nearly lost track of time in its icy darkness, using the periodic changing of the guards to ground herself. 

Until Theron Lycan took her away. Sakura had gazed out of the nearest window, and nearly sobbed when she saw the light snowfall. Even now, looking at the white expanse of the land filled her with sadness. She’d been down there for so long, and her family had been there longer.

How Sakura had dreamt of returning to her old life. The room Theron had placed her in was small, much smaller than her previous one. She mustn’t complain, however. At least she had a room. Her siblings were locked underneath the Hold, far away from her. 

_A cage is no place for a wolf,_ Sakura thought morosely. _But this is not a cage. It is my home. Right?_ She looked at the scattered Lycan banners. _How long until I am the last Wolff?_

Silas Wolff had been escorted to the Ironhill, wrapped up in thick restraints. Theron had made sure that she was there when they took him away. He was never very nice to her – not like the kindly old men Sakura loved to read about – but Silas was still her grandfather. Theron had told her that her parents may soon follow. She missed them already.

Her father would sometimes bring a new flower for her, before he’d confined himself to Westedge after the Liberation. Mother would offer her a story every now and then about Amaterasu. Dionysia had never loved Eurydice - had longed to return to the lands her mercantile family hailed from. _Izanagi? Izanami?_ Sakura always mixed up the two eastern countries. 

She missed her siblings, too. They were always more interesting than her. Archie was wilder than fire and loved to tease her, the pride of their grandfather; Elias was gentle and brilliant, the favorite of their mother; Cornelia was small and sickly, doted on by their father. Sakura was just … Sakura. How cruel that Remus should decide that _she_ was to be the last Wolff. She felt lonely in the halls of her former home, the white wolf crushed by the black tower.

Sakura knelt underneath a tree in her mother’s old garden, ignoring the cold as it clung to her. She’d been there for long enough that she’d manage to clear a small patch. She said a silent prayer to Remus: for herself, for her family, for their futures. Her people believed that their patron god rarely intervened in their lives, although he would listen should one pray and seek him out. 

_Perhaps, if I pray hard enough, he will listen and come for me._

Footsteps sounded in the blanket of snow. It was not Remus, however. Sakura looked up, and blinked with surprise when Lorelei Lycan appeared behind her. She rose quickly, offering the Lycan heir a deep curtsy. 

“No need for that, Sakura,” Lorelei said, her voice soft and pleasant. “It is just us girls out here.” 

Sakura nodded shyly. Lorelei studied the small garden Sakura had been crouched in, yellow eyes seemingly entranced. Her black hair had been released from the braid Sakura had grown accustomed to, instead falling neatly across her shoulders. She stood regal and ladylike, very much at home in Scarwood Hold. 

“I … I’m sorry,” Sakura apologized. She did not know what else to say. 

Lorelei gave her a puzzled look. “What for?”

 _Oh_. “I-I’m not sure.” 

That drew a laugh from Lorelei. She maneuvered her cloak, and seated herself next to Sakura. They remained silently like this for a few moments. Sakura fidgeted, unsure of why she had been sought out. Theron had mostly ignored her since his return from the capital, as did the Lycan household attendants. The gardens were hardly inconspicuous, and she visited them often enough that few would suspect her of trying to escape. She did not have anywhere to go, in any case. 

“You’re always in these gardens,” Lorelei said. “Do you like flowers, Sakura?”

She nodded hesitantly. “Very much. I’m named after one, I think.”

Lorelei smiled. “I’ve heard,” she said. “Cherry blossoms. A lovely name for a lovely girl.” 

Sakura suddenly felt light as she heard those words. She ran a nervous hand through her brown hair – it had grown quite long since her imprisonment – and offered a shy ‘thank you’ to Lorelei. Her words were met with a playful look. 

Lorelei rose gracefully. The older werewolf began plucking snowdrops from the ground. Sakura’s mother had planted many winter flowers years ago, such that they could survive during the Annex’s coldest season. Sakura watched Lorelei’s careful hands in curiosity. 

“What are you doing?” she finally asked. 

Lorelei returned to Sakura’s side, filling her lap with the little white flowers. She began deftly weaving the stems together. Sakura soon made out a thin crown. 

“When I was younger,” Lorelei said, “I would always take my little brothers out to the town near Beowulf Tower. I’d make crowns for them, much like this one.” She chuckled. “Ezra and Quill were such gentle boys. They would sit down patiently, and allowed me to grace them with as many as I wanted. It is strange to think that Quill has a real crown now.” 

_Thieves,_ her grandfather’s voice echoed in her mind. _Usurpers. Traitors. Death before surrender._

A flash of sadness passed through Lorelei’s eyes. Sakura urged her to continue speaking, also saddened by the look. Lorelei had been kind to her the past several months. Sakura could never bring herself to hate anyone, not even the Lycans. 

“I tried that with Viscardi once,” Lorelei exhaled, “and Luna. I soon learned that they were quite different from Ezra and Quill. I can still taste petals in my mouth.” 

Sakura flushed at the thought of the gallant but quiet Lord Ezra with flowers in his hair, but felt it evaporate at the mention of Viscardi. She’d interacted with the fourth Lycan on a few occasions, as he and Luna were now residing in Westedge. He alternated between grouchiness and serenity so frequently that she found it easier to avoid him. 

“Archie never let me place flowers on him, either,” Sakura said. “Elias would, sometimes. Cornelia was always too sick to spend much time outside. It’s not as enjoyable if you make them for yourself.” 

Sakura hoped her siblings were alright. She wasn’t allowed in the dungeons to check on them. Theron had informed her that he would gain nothing from their deaths, but he also hadn’t mentioned needing them alive. Sakura did not have the head for such schemes, but even she knew that her release meant that the new Governor was interested in her survival and hers alone. If she became more work than she was worth, Sakura may very well doom her clan. 

Lorelei held up the crown. “Would you like this one?” she asked. 

Sakura’s eyes widened. “Oh, no,” she replied meekly, “I didn’t mean that I wished to take yours.”

“It’s no trouble, really. You said yourself that they’re better when made by someone else.”

Lorelei stood, and offered her hand to Sakura. She took it hesitantly, pulling herself up from their spot. 

“Come,” Lorelei said with a smile, “take a walk with me inside. Let me brush your hair first. You’d look quite dazzling with a southern style, I should think.”

“Southern?” Sakura questioned, following her. “Like the types they wear in Coven?”

“South of Westedge,” Lorelei laughed. “Like Lunares.” 

_Oh,_ Sakura blushed as Lorelei led her inside the Hold. They strode through the halls, quiet chatter reverberating as people went about their business. They walked towards a door, and Sakura felt her heart clench when she recognized her old bedchambers. Lorelei had altered the layout such that it reflected the age and maturity of its new occupant. If there was any sign that the Lycans had fully eclipsed the Wolffs, Sakura had found it. 

“I hope you don’t mind that I took your quarters,” Lorelei said. “My father offered me another when he was given the title of Lord of Scarwood Hold, but these felt more comfortable.” 

“It’s fine,” Sakura responded. “I don’t mind as much if it’s you.” 

Lorelei’s words had reminded her of the changes Theron Lycan had made. Not only was he Governor now, but he had taken complete ownership of her ancestral home. His wife had become the Lady of Scarwood Hold. In time, Lorelei and her husband would rule the Annex. Sakura would never bear the titles that would have once been hers. She secretly felt relieved. 

_Thieves. Usurpers. Traitors. Take what they owe._

The fireplace crackled lightly, chasing away the chill in her. Sakura was directed towards a stool adjacent to a large mirror. She sat down obediently, eyes taking in the surroundings that felt so familiar and yet so different. Lorelei dug through her drawers, and procured a wide comb. She hummed quietly as she brushed Sakura’s hair. It was a sad tune, slow and mournful. 

“The Lady of Blood and Stone,” Sakura whispered. “For Jayne of Viernau.” She glanced at Lorelei for confirmation. 

“Close,” she said with a smile. “The Lady of Ice and Snow. It’s an easy mistake – they follow a similar melody.” 

“I don’t know that one as well.” 

Lorelei grew contemplative. “Both Potentates suffered after they were wed to Gideon Rosemont, yet history sometimes overlooks Helen Argent for Jayne Redwood. Perhaps it is because Jayne died in the Palace, while Helen was all alone in the Frozen Waste.” 

Sakura watched as Lorelei glided the comb through her curls, taking care not to cause a frizz. Once that was done, the older werewolf partitioned her hair into two sides. Lorelei began to weave the left half together. Sakura felt herself relax at the feeling. 

“I always wanted to be a Potentate one day,” Sakura confessed. “I would wear a crown, give my Sovereign many princes and princesses, and have singers write sweet songs about me. I’d be like Potentate Selene when she wore flowers in her hair.” _I might have even had an Adrienne Bloodworth to give me a dragon, a Damien Caedis to fight a war for me, or a Celeste Caedis to gift me with the world._

Lorelei raised a brow. “Is that still the case?” 

Sakura shook her head. “Not anymore, no. Life isn’t a fantasy.” _If it was, none of this would have happened_. “Many Potentates have had unhappy endings.” 

“They have, haven’t they?” Lorelei said quietly. 

There was a lull in conversation. Sakura concentrated on the hiss of the hearth, the whisper of the wind, and the feeling of Lorelei’s fingers in her hair. She thought about Lorelei’s words, and guessed the reason for her now downtrodden eyes. 

“You’re worried about him,” Sakura said. “Your brother.” 

“I worry about all of my siblings,” Lorelei smiled. “It’s what older sisters do.” 

“I wish I had an older sister to worry over me.” 

Lorelei grew mischievous. “If you were to marry Viscardi,” she joked, “we would be sisters.” 

“I would like that very much,” Sakura admitted. “To be sisters. Not to marry Viscardi. But,” she squeaked in surprise at her own boldness, quickly moving to cover her misstep, “if that was what your lord father commanded, then as his ward, I would do it.” 

“How nice,” Lorelei said with an unreadable look. “I do have other siblings, you know. Mayhap one of them will entice you.”

“What about Lord Ezra?” Sakura asked, hopeful. 

“He’s already engaged, I’m afraid. Blair Lupine will be the Lady of Beowulf Tower alongside him once they are wed. Viscardi isn’t too bad, really. He’s a fine lad. Surely he’ll have traits that you enjoy.” 

Sakura wrinkled her nose. “I’m not even sure _what_ I enjoy.” 

Lorelei cocked her head in interest. “Oh? Girls, perhaps. Luna, then?” 

Sakura shrugged. “I don’t know.” She blinked owlishly at Lorelei. “What do _you_ enjoy?”

“Girls, boys, anything really.”

“But you’re married,” Sakura gaped. 

Her words were met with a cheeky laugh. “I wasn’t always married. Be that as it may. Everett is a good man, though he can be a little boring.” Lorelei whispered that last part conspiratorially. 

The other half of her hair was soon tucked into a plait as well. Sakura admired the twin braids, playing with the strands of hair that had escaped. She’d seen this style before, but most ladies north of Moonstone favored a large single braid. Lorelei lowered the crown of winter flowers onto her head with a flourish.

“I crown you Sakura Wolff,” Lorelei said dramatically, “Potentate of the Kingdom of Snowdrops.” Sakura giggled, drawing a laugh from Lorelei. “They’re not cherry blossoms, but I hope you’ll like them anyway.” 

There were several raps on the door, and Lorelei called for the person to enter. Lady Celestina walked inside, deep blue gown ruffling against the soft rugs as she moved. Sakura scrambled to rise and curtsy. Celestina was warmer than her husband, though Sakura still feared a reprimand for spending time with her heir. 

Lorelei did not seem to share her worries. “Mother,” she welcomed, “doesn’t Sakura look lovely?” 

Celestina studied Sakura. “Very.” She strode primly towards them, and began to fix some of the errant hairs in the braids. 

“After all these years,” Lorelei sighed, “I still get that plait wrong.”

“It was near perfect, dear. Just a little crooked.”

Sakura could scarcely imagine Lorelei doing anything imperfectly. She looked between the two Lycan women, uncertain about why they had gathered here. She did not wait long, as Celestina answered her unspoken question.

“Your father has called a meeting,” Celestina informed. “We are needed, Lorelei.” 

Sakura rose and quietly dismissed herself, making towards the door. She wasn’t surprised that Lorelei would have other matters to attend to. Thoughts of returning to the gardens came to her, but the warmth of the fireplace had dampened her enthusiasm for the outdoors. 

“Come with us, Sakura,” Lorelei said. 

Sakura was startled. “Forgive me, my lady,” she said, “but may I ask why?”

Lorelei waved dismissively. “If you’re worried about my father, then don’t be. He can be surprisingly permissive.” 

Sakura looked to Lady Celestina, but she only looked at her expectantly. She nodded uncertainly, following after her liege ladies.

***

Theron Lycan was speaking with some vassal lords and ladies that Sakura did not recognize. He’d raised a brow at her appearance, but relented at a small smile from Lorelei. Sakura had seated herself near the sisterly woman, hoping to avoid drawing attention to herself. Some would throw her pitying looks, while others levelled her with a fierce glare. She was now glad for Theron’s indifference towards her. 

They were discussing the remaining vassals that had yet to submit to Lycan rule. Theron had managed to subdue most of them diplomatically, but a few remained unyielding. Many of the suggestions from the gathered men and women passed over Sakura’s head. She demurely watched was the wind changed direction, twirling the snow. 

“You could wed your third son to one clan,” a lady said, “and your second daughter to another. Perhaps the Wolfhearts and the Mooreshields, as they remain the most obstinate.” 

Theron sniffed. “I would sooner extinguish both clans than give them any of my children,” he responded dryly. “In any case, that still leaves the Greeneports.” 

“We have the Wolffs,” a captain said, “and may as well use them.” Sakura stiffened as she felt the room’s eyes on her. 

“Sakura is too valuable a ward for such insignificancies,” Theron said. “Her younger siblings hold no importance. A marriage using any of them would mean nothing.” He leaned back in his chair, amber eyes calculating. “Silas is not long for this world, and I doubt Julius will be pardoned. Surrendering Sakura to our enemies would only inspire them to declare her the true Governor of the Annex.” 

They talked amongst themselves while Sakura shrank in her seat. She wished Lorelei had not asked her to attend. Knowing someone held your life in their hands was one thing, but hearing them discuss it so casually made her feel quite small. 

It was not long before they were dismissed. Lorelei bid Sakura remain. The Lycans talked amongst themselves, leaving Sakura as the ever-present outsider. 

“Let us play a game,” Lorelei said kindly. She sat near Sakura, tore a paper into several strips, and began folding them. “Say you have a garden. Roses, lilies, tulips. Cherry blossoms. And one day,” the strips took the shape of little flowers, “you notice that some dandelions have crept in. How would you remove them?”

Sakura shrugged. “I rather like dandelions.” 

“Yes, they’re very pretty.” Lorelei smiled. “But they’re weeds. They would hurt the other flowers if they remained.” 

“I suppose I would … cut the stems?” 

“They might grow back if you do.” 

Sakura thought for a moment. “Uproot them entirely, then place some other flowers there that would prevent dandelion growth. Like petunias.”

“An interesting strategy,” Theron interjected, “though one that relies on what I have been trying to avoid – violence.” He tapped the table idly. “War is a useful tool. Like all tools, however, you must set it aside once you are done with it. Carrying around a hammer when you have no boards to nail would be foolish.”

”There are many ways to uproot a garden,” Celestina mused. “It does not always involve digging it up yourself.” 

She was growing confused by this conversation. Surely Lorelei had not brought her before Theron to gain her input on battle strategies. Sakura gathered her courage, and asked as much. 

Theron shrugged, a brief irritation crossing his face. “I took the Hold through force, that much is true. I, however, saw no point in continuing a doomed conflict. Your grandfather did not agree. If he was more practical, he would have wed you to the Crown Prince. The Sovereign was not in a position to deny a peaceful resolution. Lord Wolff would still die, but your clan would have survived.”

“My clan still lives,” she countered softly. 

“It does. Through you. Since you’ve been an ideal ward thus far, I’m inclined to allow that fact to remain.” 

Theron moved to Celestina’s side, and touched her shoulder gently. She rose to meet him, and the two of them exited together. Their conversation on Lord Ezra’s progress in Beowulf Tower grew farther away as they retreated. Lorelei left as well, and Sakura was free to wander the halls once more. 

She returned to her little room, and sat before its mirror. Sakura had fiddled with her braids during the entirety of Theron’s meeting, causing several hairs to come loose. She released all of them, and began to brush her tresses. 

Her hands instinctively started weaving a single plait, like her mother used to do, but Sakura paused. Instead, she separated her hair into two, and began to reconstruct the twin braids of the south. She giggled at her messy handiwork, feeling more mirthful than she had since that fine summer’s day. 

It wasn’t perfect, but she liked it anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spotlight: Argent Clan 
> 
> The Argents of Whitewood in Paravau are sworn to the Livingstones. Potentate Helen Argent is known for her disastrous marriage to the Tyrant. Helen Argent and Gideon Rosemont were wed soon after the start of his reign, with the Argents initially being his largest supporters. Gideon required an heir to his usurped throne, but Lady Helen struggled to fall pregnant. Rosemont wished to divorce her, but his forcible declaration of the Rose Era meant that he’d ostracized the Echolysian Faith. She resorted to many methods to produce an heir, and many suspect that she finally managed to conceive a son through blood magic. He was never named, as he only existed for a few hours in the world. The Tyrant accused her of murdering the child, and Helen was sent away to the newly created Frostgate Asylum as punishment. She eventually went mad, and died amidst Frostgate’s hellish walls. This lost Rosemont the support of the Argents. They assumed that Rosewood Vineyard would be turned over to them as recompense after the fall of their tyrannical rulers, but were hoodwinked by the then-Blackstones.  
> The Argent words are "Diamonds Never Break". Recent members include:  
> Jason Argent, heir to Whitewood.


	20. Quid Pro Quo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The star that shines alone, the rose that blooms alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theron and Lyra would be those two PTA moms that get mimosas at brunch and talk smack about the other PTA moms.  
> Also, am I gonna rewatch One Punch Man just to simp over Genos? Probably not, but I have deeply considered it.

Lyra Livingstone  
Stonerose, 1 Cardinal

***

Lyra raised her hand, casting a small barrier using her ‘shield’ rune. Her attendant, Lorenzo, jumped in surprise as bits of debris flew around them. He clutched a tray tightly against himself, the drink he’d brought for Lyra wobbling dangerously. She sighed and redirected a small amount of her magic into her ‘movement’ rune. The coffee bobbed cheerfully towards her inactive hand. Powering more than one rune at a time was no easy feat, but Lyra preferred it over losing her beverage. 

Her shield was dropped after the dust had settled. Lyra wrapped her hands around the cup, cooling it with a quick ‘ice’ rune. She gazed across Living Stone’s training grounds. They were nestled deeper into the mountain the castle sat upon, protecting the rest of the city below from errant strains of alchemy.

Corvus gripped his conduit tightly, finding his feet. He’d lost focus and dissipated his own shield, triggering the explosion. His tutor, Beatriz Espinosa, raised her staff and launched a volley of magic at him. Corvus grit his teeth, re-establishing his shield. 

_He’s fond of defensive magic,_ Lyra noted. She took a drink from her cup. Stonerose saw little snow during winter, but light dustings were not uncommon. She’d paired her black turtleneck with a light coat to stave off the mild cold seeping into the mountain. Lyra tapped her boots against the ground, watching her son. 

Beatriz ceased her attacks. She prompted Corvus to go on the offensive, and Lyra watched as he did so reluctantly. His conduit glowed, and fire burst forth soon after. Beatriz moved to counter it, but was stopped when Corvus’ flames grew wild. He panicked, and his magic backlashed further in response. 

A skilled alchemist, Beatriz neatly dispelled his inferno. Lyra clucked irritably at the scorch marks Corvus had left. She made her way to the clearing, leaving her coffee behind. 

“Burn down Living Stone, why don’t you,” Lyra said. She magicked Corvus’ now tarnished conduit towards herself. “This is the second one you’ve broken this year.”

“I’m sorry,” Corvus muttered. He was still breathing hard. His hands were red from where he’d channelled his magic. 

“He progresses smoothly in other fields, Lady Livingstone,” Beatriz informed. “Transformations, conversions, modifications. Even reconstruction.” 

“But not with combative magic,” Lyra replied.

She took Corvus’ hands, activating her specialized ‘healing’ rune. Orion had struggled with alchemy in his youth, as had Cesare. She’d learned how to mend a few burns. Corvus relaxed as the green glow soothed the angry welts. 

“How is he with elemental runes?” she inquired. 

“He is quite skilled using air,” Beatriz answered. “Water and earth are acceptable.” She paused. “I will dedicate more lectures towards fire.” 

Lyra hummed. “Very well. Teach him near the docks next time you work with it. If any ships burn down, then that will be their fault for not investing in proper fireproofing. That will be all.” 

Beatriz bowed, and took her leave. Lyra released Corvus when she was finished. His hands were now a faint pink, but that would fade with time. He would be fine otherwise. 

“Why do I have to learn fire?” Corvus asked, crossing his arms. He kicked the dirt lightly. 

“You don’t have to,” Lyra said. “I want you to.” 

He accepted her answer quietly. Lyra could feel the distant thrumming of the Living Stone Rock beneath her as they returned to the castle. She’d never struggled with alchemy, having grown used to its constant presence in her life. It was another trait she’d failed to pass on to her children. She huffed. Orion and Corvus seemed more Silversong than Livingstone half of the time. 

The image of Richard Silversong’s great belly, receding hairline, and jovial smile came to mind. Lyra shuddered at the thought. She glanced at Corvus’ eyes, and was comforted by the familiar green. _My mother’s eyes, and her father before her._

“You’re channelling too much magic through your conduit,” she said. “Alchemy can be virtually limitless, provided one crafts the correct rune. Before you reach that stage, however, you need to learn control.” 

Corvus nodded. He inspected the remnants of his conduit, before issuing ‘reconstruction’. The general rune sputtered and failed, leaving the small wooden staff in its present state. Lyra wasn’t sure why he bothered using a weaker rune for such a complicated magical item. 

“You’ve outgrown this one,” she said. “I’ll arrange for another to be made for you. One less prone to backlash.” 

“Okay,” Corvus said. 

Lyra was used to his reticence. “Of course, it would need to have all of your old runes carved into it. I hope you kept track of which ones you had. Unless,” she studied him, “you would like to have them on your body.” 

Corvus shook his head quickly. “It … it’s fine,” he rejected. “I’ll take the conduit.” 

“I’ll have shavings from the Rock incorporated into it, then. Perhaps a Philosopher’s Stone will trigger fewer explosions.” 

They entered the halls of Living Stone, and Lyra massaged her temples when she remembered all of the things requiring her attention. She’d allowed herself a moment to breathe by watching Corvus and Beatriz spar, but relaxation never came easy to her. 

“Lady Valentin requested I foster one of her grandchildren in Living Stone,” Lyra griped, focusing on her more trivial matters. “The nerve of that woman. Why would I want some other mage’s child running around my castle?” _I can barely handle Orion whenever he deigns to return._

“Would you be willing to foster someone else?” Corvus asked. “Not a mage, or from Coven.” 

Lyra raised a brow. “Who, then, if not one of my vassals?”

“I … never mind,” he shrugged. 

Lyra did not question his response. Corvus soon turned in the direction of the rookery, but Lyra sent him off to his quarters with a fierce glare. He’d spent the last few hours mucking about within the mountain. She would not have him trail dust all over the place. 

She dipped into her office, frowning at the paperwork she still had left to do. Lyra could work tirelessly for a year, and she’d still be beleaguered. Her current headache lay in the Impasse Treaty. Or rather, in the aftermath of the Impasse, as the Sovereign had called for its removal. 

Coven’s instability at the start of the last Era had sweetened Damien Caedis to the deal. Lyra had never liked Damien much – not after the Second Mage Uprising - but she had not been thrilled when he was slain. If anything, it had meant that Coven’s restored prosperity was threatened. His son had been a stranger to her. For a time, she’d worried that the Viper would use his near-absolute power to force her out of neutrality. It ended up mattering little. It certainly had not hurt when Lyra persuaded the Tridents to declare for the Impasse as well. 

_How fitting that the agreement I myself suggested should come back to trouble me,_ Lyra thought with annoyance. 

She was pleased at the prospect of reduced payment. However, it felt odd having the crown involved in Coven’s affairs once more. Her region had effectively functioned as its own nation for the entirety of the war. Lyra could tell that some of her larger vassals had grown accustomed to limited royal interference. More fool them. She wasn’t about to start a war for secession. 

The speculum Lyra kept in her office flashed a pale blue. She approached the emerald-cut artefact, and rested her fingers against its smooth surface. A thrum of magic, generated from its synthetic Philosopher’s Stone core, reacted to her touch. Not for the first time, Lyra wondered how its pale imitation of alchemy felt to non-mages. They had changed much since she was a girl. 

Rays of light burst forth from the speculum, before settling as shimmering points. The face of Theron Lycan slowly appeared in dull shades. 

“What?” Lyra said dryly. 

“Always a pleasure, Lady Livingstone,” Theron responded, equally dry. 

Lyra returned to her desk, and began working through her lesser responsibilities. She motioned for Theron to continue. Her intentions were to multitask through their conversation. 

“What do you know of the Ark Islands?” Theron asked. 

Lyra decided to humour him. “They are several islands scattered across the Lesser Sea,” she said, “owned by a seafaring clan no doubt. Perhaps some vassals of the Tridents. Whatever the case, they have minimal contact with my region.”

Theron shook his head. “The Greeneports hold those islands from their seat of Oceanfall. They are sworn to the Great Clan of the Annex.” 

“I never knew werewolves to be fond of water.” 

“They’re not pure werewolves. Their siren blood is strong.” 

“How quaint,” she sniffed. “One seldom sees those two races hybridizing. I learn something new every day.” Lyra paused thoughtfully. “ _Sworn to the Great Clan_? What a strange way of phrasing it. Was I mistaken in the belief that yours was the Great Clan?” 

Theron frowned. “No,” he said, “you weren’t. The Greeneports, however, seem to disagree on which clan should rule the Annex. Their allegiance remains with the Wolffs.” 

Lyra tutted. “A troublesome thing, though I fail to see how it concerns Coven.” 

“It doesn’t, I will admit. I have a proposition for you.”

“Oh? Do tell.”

Theron vanished as he moved from view of his own speculum, reappearing shortly afterwards. His eyes were cast towards something out of the artefact’s range. Lyra wrote a courteous denial of Lady Valentin’s offer as she waited. Well, it was courteous by her standards. 

“Now that the Wolffs are removed from power,” Theron said, “the Greeneports have been receiving supplies from towns along Western Coven. I need you to redirect those supplies.” Lyra levelled him with a flat stare. “Not enough to hurt your people. Enough to dissuade them from trading with the Greeneports. I mean to starve them out.”

“Why don’t you just unseat these Greeneports?” Lyra asked. “Storm their keep, put them to the sword. You are clearly not the type to shy away from such activities.” 

“I don’t have the luxury of Eras of reign,” Theron replied. “My seat is too new to be wiping out clans. Besides, the Greeneports have the largest fleet in the Annex. A fleet that I want.” 

Lyra twirled her fountain pen between her fingers thoughtfully. This would not be the first time that the Annex has invited Coven to solve its problems. Silas Wolff had written her a few times during the war, hoping to sway her region to his cause. She’d toyed with the possibilities until the Young Viper had proven himself quite venomous. 

_Theron, however, is more likely to substantiate his claims._ “What about what _I_ want, my lord? You still haven’t told me why I should care. What would Coven gain from some truculent Annexian vassal?” 

“The Lesser Sea.” Theron’s amber eyes – looking darker through the speculum – met her green. 

Despite its name, the Lesser Siren Sea was not under the control of the Tridents. Sitting between Coven – a neutral region, and the Annex – the primary belligerent – it was of little use to the crown during the War Era. They could scarcely command the Spear Royals to take it, as the Tridents, too, were neutral. The direct ownership of the Lesser Sea in the Cardinal Era was tremulous at best. Lyra was finally intrigued by Theron’s words.

“You’d give away control of it to my clan?” Lyra asked, brows raised. “Anyone hoping to avoid the Northern Sea would travel over the Mellow and through the Lesser. The Skyreaches claim the Mellow Sea. By your own words, the Greeneports are most like to take the Lesser.” _Unless I have the Silversong and Livingstone ships supplant them. No doubt Coven’s fleet is stronger._

“I’d obviously not give you the entire sea,” Theron said waspishly. “With proper cultivation, the Greeneports would hold much of the southern Lesser Sea. Once they swear fealty, the Lycans will control it by extension.” Lyra heard a tapping sound projected from Theron’s end. “I stand to gain from them supporting me as their liege.” 

Lyra linked her fingers together. “And if Coven offered extra incentive for them to declare for the Lycans,” she drawled, “then the Livingstones would stand to gain as well. A quid pro quo. Truly tempting.”

“ _Lyra_ ,” Theron said. He sighed as she met him calmly. “My son, Ezra, is now Lord of Beowulf Tower. He has cut supply lines along the Annexian shores of the Lesser Seas. With Coven’s involvement, it won’t be long before the Greeneports surrender. They were not built to withstand economic siege.” 

_Almost there_. “This sounds like a prosperous venture. Who is to say that the crown will not take matters into its own hands?” 

“Having one’s child on the throne is not without its benefits. An order from the Potentate stands alone.” 

“Unless challenged by the Sovereign,” Lyra countered. She glanced out of her window, towards the docks. 

“Who has priorities beyond a collection of islands in the narrowest of the Eurydicean seas. This ‘venture’ is one with minimal investment and high reward on your part. I know that’s how you operate.” 

Lyra offered the werewolf a sweet smile. “Always a pleasure, Lord Lycan.” 

They spent a few hours drafting the details of their agreement, before terminating their connection. The light of the speculum flicked and vanished. As far as Lyra was concerned, this would be one of the first major undertakings between Coven and the Annex. Assuming this went according to plan, more would follow in the future. Perhaps Lyra could even convince Queen Tiberia to direct merchants into the Lesser Sea. Once it was partially hers, of course. 

Lyra procured several sheets, and began to pen orders to her vassals. The Argents and the Rocheforts were the strongest families in the western sections of Coven. If any clan could weaken the Greeneports via land, it was them. Lyra knew they would grumble about the trade they would lose from her alterations, but it would not matter in the long run. It would balance out with Coven’s westward expansion. She next penned a missive to Richard Silversong, grimacing the entire time. Lyra would not mobilize the Livingstone fleet until the Greeneports were subdued. The Silversong ships would have to suffice. 

Once finished, Lyra poured herself a glass of white wine. The Cardinal Era may yet prove itself favourable.

***

The Cardinal Era was going to be the death of her. 

Lyra read the summons from the crown, signed by the Sovereign himself. Her eyes twitched in irritation as she gazed over it for a third time. They wanted her to become the Master of Society. 

That office would no doubt be the most tedious of the four. As Master of Society, Lyra would be responsible for the wellbeing of the kingdom’s inhabitants - the smooth operation of society in its forms. With all of the other Governors under her care, the entirety of Eurydice would be her problem to deal with. 

“Haven’t I laboured enough for this country?” Lyra hissed to no one in particular. 

She began to pace rapidly. Though the crown’s letter was phrased as a question, Lyra knew that she could not refuse. There was no reason to reject their offer. Coven had been adjusting well since the end of the war, and she’d heard nary a peep from the leaders that had initially lamented the peace. Her region remained strong. With the eventual weakening of the Greeneports, it would only grow stronger. 

Lyra sighed. The last several months had seen in her the capital more often than she would have liked. The Ironhill drained her in a way Stonerose never could. 

_I need someone to act as Governor in my stead,_ she grumbled. _Corvus is too young to hold it. That leaves … Orion. Gods, where even is he?_

Her eldest son would be the salt rubbed into a fresh wound. He’d gone gallivanting across the region soon after they’d returned from the Ironhill. She knew all about Orion’s incessant pursuits of pleasure. She turned a blind eye towards it out of practicality. Short of locking him in his chambers, there wasn’t much she could do to stop him. It mattered little, in any case. Orion was free to sample the fruits of the vine so long as he did not bring any whores, bastards, or their whore mothers to her castle.

Her son truly was more Silversong than Livingstone. Cesare had been a sailor through and through. Staying in Living Stone, governing the region at her side – that had not been in her husband’s blood. 

Memories of his ship, the _Silver Tide_ , came unbidden to her. He’d added black roses to his silver sails after he’d won her affections what felt like a lifetime ago. _For you,_ he’d told her mischievously. _The brightest star, and the sharpest rose._

_Cesare had nothing but the salt of the seas running through his veins,_ Lyra thought. _I tried to give him freedom from the restrictions of my titles, and how did that end? With him at the bottom of the Southern Sea._

Lyra had given Orion that same freedom. His love of travelling was so distinctly _Cesare_ that the thought of stifling it had physically pained her. Now, she wondered if that had been a mistake. He was ill-equipped to rule Coven, as she herself had once been. 

_It is a small mercy that Corvus prefers to stay in one location._

Masters were allowed to come and go from the Palace, though their movements were limited by the conditions in the kingdom. She’d need someone to keep an eye on her sons while she dealt with the royal snake pit. 

Lyra fetched her pen, and began leaving detailed instructions for Orion. She left several more for her stewards and chamberlains in the likely event that he did not read them. Gods, why couldn’t her parents have had other children? A sibling to serve as acting Governor in place of Orion would be preferable. Better still, Corvus could have been her firstborn. He was already twice as mature as his brother. What she wouldn’t give to have him as her heir.

Once finished, Lyra sent for someone to find her wayward son. As long as Orion was still in Coven, it would not be exceptionally difficult. Returning him to Stonerose would be the real challenge. 

That left Lyra with the crown’s letter. It seemed that even she had grown accustomed to operating with little royal input. Her nostrils flared from the force of her exasperation. 

Lyra looked out towards the sea one last time. As usual, the ship with the black roses on its silver sails did not glide into the docks. She didn’t even know why she kept watching for it. She already knew where it was. 

In Black Hall - her clan’s old keep before they took Living Stone from the newly-extinct Rosemonts. As broken as the day it was found. 

_I’ll build you a great ship after the war,_ Cesare had once promised her, as she’d held a newborn Corvus in her arms. _One that’s even better than Silver Tide. We’ll sail around the world together. As a family._

“What nonsense,” Lyra muttered. 

She lifted her pen, and wrote a formal letter of acceptance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spotlight: Jayne Redwood  
> 
> 
> The Redwoods of Red Hall in Viernau were sworn to the Rosemont Clan. Lady Jayne was quite young when she became the second wife of the Tyrant. She proved more fertile than her predecessor, though this did not spare her from her husband's cruelty. Her death, however, is what made her memorable. She fled from the forces of Gideon Rosemont’s enemies when they stormed the Redfyre Palace, before they trapped her on the second level. She had been planning to barricade herself and her younger children in the Sovereign’s wing, but was intercepted before they could reach the upper level. She used herself as a distraction, leading the rebels through the Palace in order to allow her children to escape. She was stabbed repeatedly, and died surrounded by her enemies.  
> Her young children - Elvira, Morgana, Caesar, and Cain - were executed in Courtmere as their father looked on. The rest of her clan was exterminated, and the ruins of Red Hall are all that remain. It is said that her ghost stalks the Palace, forever searching for her lost children.  
> The song “The Lady of Blood and Stone” is dedicated to her.


	21. The One With Stars In Her Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keeping up with Quill Lycan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Game Ares is SUCH a simp for Game Ayden and I don’t even know why. They’ve spoken maybe twice during my whole gameplay. I’ve kept Ares’ crush on a major character constant, but it sure as hell isn’t Ayden.  
> I got so caught up in the euphoria of a Percy Jackson adaption that for a minute I lived in a world where I had Disney+. So, I decided to rewatch Blackadder for comfort (skipping season one, naturally) and I’m reminded of what a good show it is. Would recommend.

Quill Lycan  
The Ironhill, 1 Cardinal

***

“Ayden doesn’t ignore me,” Quill said thoughtfully, “not quite. He’ll respond if I talk to him, and spend the night with me if I ask. He just feels…” He searched for the right words, “detached. Impersonal.” 

Ayden Caedis was not a particularly difficult man to speak to, provided one could get past his outwardly cool demeaner. Quill, however, had found himself initiating most of their interactions. They’d been physically intimate on numerous occasions – of that he could not complain – but they had yet to share a romantic connection. 

Quill huffed. It was still early; he and Ayden had not been wed for very long. Despite this, he could not help feeling somewhat dismayed. Marriage had scarcely been a primary concern for him in Lunares, but he’d always envisioned his partner being someone he could freely engage with. Quill thought they were meant to rule the kingdom together, yet Ayden seemed determined to do it all by himself. 

The left hand of the Red Throne was feeling a little left behind. 

“I know he’s a busy man,” Quill sighed. “He has important Sovereign business to attend to. You’d think me the least important person in the Inner Circle at times.” _I know Hyperion has been essential to Eurydice – I’ve no clue as to how the Garrison, Navy, or Military Police function – but I’d gladly offload that honour to him._

Isabelle’s projected image nodded sagely. Orion snorted. His friends had been conversing with him via speculum. Quill was currently in his private wing, preparing himself for the day’s events. He had dismissed his royal attendants prior to receiving Isabelle and Orion’s summons. Preventing them from, well, attending to their assigned royal left him with the tiniest bit of guilt. Life in Beowulf Tower had been less pretentious. Quill would someday grow accustomed to having others help him dress, but today was not that day. 

“Go sit on his cock whenever he’s being all Sovereignly,” Orion advised. “That’ll grab his attention.” 

Quill paused as he adjusted the sleeves of his attire. He’d decided on shades of blue and gray, familiar colours from the Annex. He lifted an eyebrow at Orion’s wise suggestion. 

“No,” Quill declined. 

Isabelle harrumphed at the mage. “Nympho,” she chided. 

Orion pouted under the force of their combined glowers. “I appreciate the art of lovemaking,” he said. “Is that a crime?” 

Quill chuckled as Isabelle once again lectured Orion on the dangers of his promiscuity. He moved out of the speculum’s range, taming his dark hair in one of the numerous mirrors. Neither of his crowns would be worn today. Quill had a very special appointment that he was excited for, and he did not want his royal status to diminish his high spirits. 

“You definitely have a child out there somewhere, Orion,” Quill said, supporting whatever argument Isabelle had been presenting. “Probably enough illegitimate children to make a small army.” He smirked at Orion’s sputtering defences. “Where even are you?” 

“Would you believe me if I said Stonerose?” Orion asked. 

Quill and Isabelle responded in unison with a flat ‘no’. 

Orion laughed good-naturedly. “I’m in Bergellon,” he said, “doing some research of my own. I decided to stop by and visit an old friend.” He winked at the last word. 

Quill’s speculum flashed several times, indicating that someone was trying to join their conversation. He moved towards the artefact and tapped his finger against it, granting the person access. The artificial alchemy felt strange as it coursed through him. It was an unnatural and foreign sensation. 

Ares’ face popped up aside the others. He waved eagerly, his usual bright smile fixed firmly in place. His eyes were vibrant despite the dull speculum lighting. 

“Isabelle! Hey, Isabelle!” Ares chirped. “Hey, Quill! H-hi, Orion.” 

They all offered greetings to the energetic vampire. Ares grinned happily, and began regaling them with new tales from Starkhall. Quill moved about his quarters as he listened, making sure that he had everything he needed. Unsurprisingly, their discussion soon found its way back towards more suggestive themes. Such was the case when treating with one Orion Livingstone. 

“Honestly,” Orion said, “I would be terrified if a vampire performed oral services on me. Those fangs would have me on edge the entire time. One wrong move, and it’s over for the little guy. Don’t look at me like that, Isabelle. Such banter is commonplace amongst men.” 

Ares grew incredibly flustered. Isabelle’s offended expression was truly a sight to behold. Quill would have taken a photograph if he could. 

“Hey, Quill,” Orion continued. “You’re likely the expert on this subject. What is it like?”

Quill shrugged. “I’ll let you know when I find out,” he said crisply. 

“Damn. Ayden’s never … you know? What do you even do with your free time?” 

_Think of ways to contribute to the kingdom, and have them all be shot down by the Inner Circle._ Quill had told himself that he wasn’t bitter, but even he knew that wasn’t completely true. Be that as it may. Today would be a good day. It had to be. 

Once Quill was ready, he issued a quick goodbye to his friends. He stepped outside of his wing, taking in the sounds of the Redfyre Palace. Soft footsteps soon sounded behind him. Quill had spent months teaching himself to recognize them. 

“Good morning, Cerberus,” he said to his guard. It wasn’t the man’s real name – he had yet to reveal it to Quill - but it seemed fitting nonetheless. In any case, Cerberus responded whenever it was used. Quill assumed that the large man did not take offense. 

“Your Grace,” Cerberus greeted curtly. He was a tall man, large and edged with muscle. Faded scars lined his face, which itself was frequently set in a scowl. His scruffy brown hair fell around his dark eyes. Quill could not tell if he was a mage or commonfolk. He leaned towards the latter, as he had yet to see Cerberus preforming magic of any kind. 

“I heard it may snow one of these days,” Quill said amicably. “What’s left from last month’s bout has been steadily melting. I wouldn’t mind more.” 

Cerberus made a noise in acknowledgement. This was a win in Quill’s book. He’d grown so bored in the Palace that he’d forced Cerberus into some semblance of friendship. The day he’d gotten the silent man to verbally reply to him had been a proud one. 

_Two responses from Cerberus in short succession. Most of the Inner Circle is preoccupied with other tasks, and I’m about to undergo one of my own. If those are not good omens, then I don’t know what is._

They made their way through the main building. Quill glanced out of the nearest window. Several vehicles idled beneath the Palace. He smiled as he regarded the black automobiles. Today would mark his first public appearance without the Sovereign. There would not be any specula on him – thank the gods – but he still wanted to make a good impression on the city.

Quill ate a light breakfast in the dining room reserved for members of the royal family and their honoured guests. Aside from his staff and Cerberus, he was alone. He’d spent time with the prince and princess on a few occasions, but Ayden’s heirs seemed quite independent. 

_It’s unsettling to think that Lucien and Esme are technically my step-children,_ Quill grimaced. _They feel more like little siblings than anything. I’m just glad that they do not look to me as their second parent._

He was washing down his meal with a glass of milk when Arion Sylph strolled into the dining room. Quill issued him a friendly greeting. Arion was one of the most relaxed people Quill had met in the capital. How the thorny Lady Fiona could raise such a mellow son was beyond him. Quill’s current excursion outside of the Iron City was due in part to Arion. He was slightly miffed that he’d practically needed his permission to leave, as Potentates outranked Suzerains, but he would take any victories he could get. 

The elf was clutching a cup of coffee, ice cubes tinkling within the dark liquid. Arion smiled, but soon gave Quill a puzzled look. 

“Are you drinking milk?” he asked, brown eyes narrowed. 

Quill blinked in surprise, suddenly self-conscious. “Yes?” he responded unsurely. 

“By itself?” Arion looked aghast. “Just like that?” 

“Yes.” 

“Perhaps this marriage was a mistake. Only a complete psychopath the likes of Gideon Rosemont thinks ‘ _I would like a beverage. Ah, yes. Raw milk will suffice_ ’.” 

“It’s pasteurized,” Quill defended. He frowned as Arion snorted. “Oh, I see. You were joking. Funny.” 

“Lighten up, Quill,” Arion laughed. “I’m ready to leave when you are, by the way.”

Quill nodded and rose from the table. Cerberus trailed behind them, politely unresponsive to Arion’s chatter. They made their way outside of the main palace. Quill decided to fill the silence, half-remembering a conversation he’d once had with Lady Fiona. 

“How common are double affinities?” Quill asked. “Outside of your clan, that is.” 

Arion shrugged. “Not very,” he replied, “but they exist. It is normally air paired with another element, though I’m not sure why it is so agreeable.” He grew thoughtful. “I met a man from Snowhaven once with a double affinity. It was one of the weirder combinations, too. Neither of them was air.”

“What were they?”

“Mmmm,” Arion hummed. “Fire. And I think water, though he usually manifested it as ice. Not surprising, given Snowhaven’s proximity to the Frozen Waste.” He shrugged again. “Weird guy. Cool scar. Interesting hairstyle.” 

Ever-curious, Quill next inquired about the Nymphae. Religion was not a taboo topic in Eurydice, but that did not mean that Quill was an expert on all five of the gods. Echolyse’s influence was felt even in the Remus-dominated Annex, but he knew little of Stepes’ Dadia, Briar’s Nymphae, and Sedna of the Seas. 

“We call them the five gods,” Arion said, “but that is a tad inaccurate. It would be more like the one hundred gods if we factored in all the possible Nymphae.” Quill was intrigued. Arion laughed. “Most people incorrectly assume that the Nymphae are one deity. They are beings representing the main four elements, but there are also intermediates like sand, lightning, and trees. I don’t know; I wouldn’t call myself the most pious of men.” 

They reached the vehicles, and Quill slipped into the one meant for him. Arion would only accompany the procession beyond the Iron Wall. After that, he’d return to the Palace. Quill would handle the rest himself. _I can finally use my title for something._ The thought was both terrifying and exhilarating. 

“Today will be great,” Quill told himself. 

***

“I wish I was a dire-wolf,” the young werewolf girl, Valeria, sighed, “but I’m just an ordinary gray-wolf. We’re not as interesting.” 

Many of her fellow werewolf children nodded in support. The others looked a little confused. Valeria’s teacher, a young commonfolk woman named Ophelia, shushed her in embarrassment. She gazed at Quill apologetically. 

Ayden had effectively prevented Quill from leaving the Ironhill, but the Sovereign had never said that he couldn’t move around _within_ the city. Quill had visited one of the larger basic schools in the western parts of the Ironhill. Educational institutions would sometimes specialize on a specific race, though this was more common amongst the magically inclined. Quill had chosen this school because of its mixed enrolment. He’d traversed across the different levels of the building, and was now completing his tour with a class consisting of mainly ten-year old students. The future of a nation rested in its youth, and Quill planned to build a better one for Eurydice.

“You know,” Quill stage-whispered, “ _I’m_ an ‘ordinary’ gray-wolf.” 

Werewolves differed in their characteristics during their monthly Transformations. Dire-wolves were the largest and strongest of them. They were the dominant subtype before the fall of Lunae Lumen. The northern Annex was rife with them; ancient clans such as the Wolffs and the Cairns were known for their prominent dire-wolf blood. 

The more generalized gray-wolves had eclipsed their older counterparts across all of the kingdom, as most of them had chosen to migrate rather than perish at the hands of Gideon Rosemont. Steppe-wolves soon came about from the werewolves that resettled in Stepes after the death of the Tyrant. White-wolves, the fourth subtype, had fled to the Frozen Waste during the Rose Era. Quill had only ever encountered them in books. If any other werewolf types existed, they were long gone from Eurydice.

Quill laughed softly as Valerie gaped at him. “But,” she gasped, “you’re the Potentate! I thought all highborn people like you were dire-wolves.” 

“Whenever you Transform, know that we share a connection,” Quill said. 

Ophelia looked aggrieved at her talkative charge. Quill dispelled the teacher’s worries with an easy smile. It was nice to speak freely with someone, even if they were only a child. Valerie reminded him of Luna, in a way. He found himself thinking of the werewolf girl he’d glimpsed in the crowd outside of the Iron Cathedral, after his coronation. _The one with stars in her eyes._

Quill made certain to speak with the non-werewolf students as well. He hoped that them seeing him – a werewolf monarch – would be a step towards healing the kingdom. Ayden could focus on economics and policies and technicalities, but Quill meant to work with the people themselves. Isabelle would call him a wide-eyed idealist once more for his approach, but he had to start somewhere. 

He ended up spending nearly the entire day in the school. After the children had gone to their various homes, Quill had spoken with their teachers. A few had been reticent, but most seemed fascinated by the newest addition to the royal family. It wasn’t often that one visited their institution. An aged teacher had even likened him to Potentate Lilith von Drake, whose presence had brightened the realm after the painful Gray Era. Quill wasn’t sure how to feel about that. It seemed a bit pre-emptive. 

_I suppose my death would also lead to war,_ Quill thought morbidly. _So, I have that going for me. A comforting thought._

____

____

Quill sighed at the setting sun as he exited the building. He decided to stretch his legs around the area of the Ironhill they had visited. It was some distance away from the Iron Wall, located in a sparser side of the capital. He walked through the thin snow, studying the city that still felt so strange to him. Cerberus, as usual, was not far away. 

Lights from the rising buildings were beginning to glimmer as the moon took the place of the sun. The Ironhill’s night owls would soon be stirring. Quill observed the daytime dwellers as they expertly navigated the streets. He heard the rush of steamboats as they sailed along the gentle Fair Serpent. Quill leaned against the stone railing overlooking the river, amused by a pair of werewolf and vampire men that slunk through the shadows. 

Despite the bustling sounds of the city, he felt peaceful. Tired, but peaceful. 

_I should probably head back,_ he thought, noticing how far he and Cerberus had walked. His personal guard seemed to grow more agitated the farther he strayed from their ride back to the Palace. Quill glanced at the waxing gibbous that was growing more visible in the sky. Yes, it was time to head back. 

He began making his way towards the school. A shout from behind prompted him to turn around as he neared the vehicles. Quill watched as a werewolf man approached him. His simplistic clothing suggested that he was lowborn. Quill donned a smile. _I’m a little tired, but what is one more conversation?_

“Your Grace,” the man said, pausing as Cerberus took a step forward. “My name is Jon Evans.” His accent was Ironhill, though it sounded more learned than Quill would expect from the average lowborn person. Quill set his guard at ease. 

“Good evening, sir,” Quill greeted. “Is something the matter?”

With two broadcasted events focusing on him, it was not terribly surprising that someone would eventually recognize his face. He hadn’t exactly been discreet during his impromptu trip around the city. Evans came to a stop before him, as close as he dared with Cerberus’ looming presence. 

“I’m Ironhill,” Evans said, “born and raised. Flew the crown’s banners and everything during the war. So that the vampires and elves wouldn’t think I was one of them.” 

Quill frowned. “One of who?”

“ _You_ ,” Evans answered. “Insurgents. You kept a war going for decades, and were rewarded with the kingdom. The Annex scarcely saw fighting on its own soil. But us werewolves outside – in Sanguis, in Stepes – got blamed for what was happening in a region most of us hadn’t even set foot in.” 

Quill stared at him lamely. “I…” 

“The younger generation might be captivated by you,” Evans said, “but us older folks know what the world was like before the Annex invaded Stepes. Things were never easy for us lowborn werewolves. _That_ certainly didn’t help.”

“Had some people break into my home not long ago,” Evans continued. “Destroyed my property; took most of my things. All because I didn’t want to fly the Lycan banners.” He narrowed his eyes at Quill. “I thought you were here to unite us.” 

Cerberus unsheathed a portion of the sword at his side. Quill hadn’t even noticed the blade. Jon Evans recognized the threat for it was. He scoffed at both of them, turning on his heel. 

“Wait,” Quill said. “WAIT!” 

Evans turned, lips set in a deep frown. Quill walked up to him, pouring as much sincerity as he could into his voice. 

“The crown will compensate you for your troubles,” Quill said. “I will see to it myself. Give me your information, and I will ensure that you are paid twice the worth of what was taken. Three times, even.” 

Evans glared at him. Quill steeled himself and kept speaking. “You shouldn’t have to suffer for the actions of others.” _I swore to shield my people from harm._

Nearly an eternity passed as the man regarded him. The Ironhill seemed to freeze as Quill waited for his response. Evans finally nodded. It wasn’t long before he continued on his way, though he stopped to bestow Quill with his parting words. 

“How typical of the highborn. You can’t throw crowns and lyres at every problem, Your Grace.” 

Quill watched as Evans was swallowed up by the rest of the city. The pleasant tiredness Quill felt after visiting the children had been replaced by ordinary tiredness. Quill wordlessly retreated to the vehicles, and sat quietly through the drive back into the Iron City.

Arion met him at the Palace, smiling. He gave Quill a quizzical look. 

“How was it?” Arion asked. 

Quill stalled by the stairs, searching for an answer. 

“It was fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spotlight: Rosemont Clan  
> 
> 
> An old clan, the Rosemonts discovered and occupied the Living Stone Rock during the Stone Era. They constructed Rosewood Vineyard on top of it, and much of Stonerose’s successes as a major city were due to their lavish contributions. They were one of the wealthiest houses in the young Kingdom of Eurydice, and their riches meant that they had many friends in the Palace. Despite their friendly relations, marriages between Rosemonts and Bloodworths were unforthcoming, and they began to grumble about repeatedly being snubbed by the crown. Dadia Stareyes’ reign as Sovereign, and the induction of the prosperous Kingdom of Briar into Eurydice meant that their power and influence within the royal court quickly began to wane. They helped reinstall a cadet Bloodworth branch onto the throne, but once again their efforts went unappreciated by the crown. Gideon Rosemont would eventually seize the crown for himself, forever changing the course of Eurydicean history. Grand Seer Nero I eventually called for their removal, a sentiment that most of Eurydice agreed with. Any survivors crossed the Siren Seas to other continents, and many would die living in squalor on foreign lands. The Rosemont Clan is now extinct in Eurydice.  
> Their words were "Conquerors on the Mountain." Known members included:  
> {Gideon Rosemont}, the Tyrant. A former Sovereign.  
> {Helen Argent}, first wife of Gideon.  
> {Jayne Redwood}, second wife of Gideon.  
> {Elvira Rosemont}, first child of Gideon and Jayne. Died at age 8.  
> {Morgana Rosemont}, second. Died at age 6.  
> {Caesar Rosemont}, third. Died at age 3.  
> {Cain Rosemont}, last. A baby.


	22. Chessboard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A dynasty falls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hyperion: Selene is gone and the army is mine. Now's my chance to arrange a Tydus-Caedis marriage and scheme from the shadows.  
> *Theron Lycan has entered the chat*  
> Theron: Hi sisters!  
> Anyway, I hate werewolves in The Sims 3 so much. They could’ve been magnificent and terrifying but instead they were glorified dogs😔. I do, however, think toddler werewolves are adorable.  
> CONTENT WARNING: VIOLENCE

Hyperion Tydus  
Fort Imperial, 1 Cardinal

***

Fort Imperial was located south of the Ironhill, deeper within Ancient. Large, well-fortified, and near-impenetrable, Fort Imperial often served as the last place where heinous enemies of the realm would draw their last breaths. Of all the bases under Hyperion’s command, Imperial was easily one of the most impressive. 

The Liberation of Homestead had left the Garrison in a weakened state. Hyperion had gambled on securing the Red Throne during the Sovereign’s absence, and he had been rewarded with a broken military. He’d restructured the Garrison and Military Police following his failed plan, modifying them to fit his vision. Repairing Starkhall after the idiocy that was his parents’ reign had cultivated the ruthlessness in Hyperion. He’d used it to earn the fear of the Garrison and Military Police, and the respect of the Navy. 

With the Sovereign’s repurposing of the Garrison, however, Hyperion had found himself losing control of his forces. It was not a pleasant feeling. 

Hyperion walked deeper into the barracks where the prisoners at Fort Imperial were kept. Colonel Ruby Castleton had given him access to the area, unable to refuse her superior. He’d waved away the men she’d sent to escort him. Hyperion would not be requiring an audience. 

As he moved down the concrete steps, Hyperion rattled off the names of the strongest bases that were his by law. It was a habit he’d acquired after being appointed the Master of Defense. It reminded him of how powerful he was; of how far his influence could spread. Reyna had her networks, and Hyperion had his. 

“Fort Imperial and Fort Crown – Ancient,” he murmured. “Fort Oracle – Coven. Fort Deepwater – Southern Sea. Fort Ember – Sanguis. Fort Tempest – Northern Sea. Fort Bracken – Briar. Fort Stallion – Stepes.” Hyperion stilled as he reached the cell he was searching for. “Fort Alpha – the Annex.” 

Silas Wolff glanced up at him, eyes glowing despite the darkness. He was alone. His fate had been decided before a court of law. High treason, war crimes, insurrection, conspiracy, warmongering, unlawful invasion of another region. The list went on and on. Truly, he’d gone for the whole collection.

It was nearly a full moon, Hyperion noted. The man would be dead before he saw it. 

Hyperion stopped outside of the bars of the claustrophobic cell. He’d dismissed the guards that were watching the former Insurgent leader. There were few windows in the underbelly of Imperial. The ones present were tiny things; even vermin would struggle to crawl through them. The electrical current was low, though it still produced an irritating buzz. Hyperion could barely stand it, and his senses were not as sharp as a werewolf’s. These past few days must have been torturous for Wolff. 

“Wine?” Hyperion asked, pouring a cup of the dark liquid. He’d found no proper glasses in the base. This would have to suffice. 

Wolff growled. “What’s wrong, boy?” he sneered. “Can’t watch a man die while sober?”

“I thought to ease you in your final moments,” Hyperion responded. He topped off the cup, and waved it towards the bars. He would not reach his arms through then until he was certain that Wolff would not try and bite them off. 

“Forgive me if I mistrust you,” Wolff stared at him disdainfully, “but I notice you’ve only poured enough for one person. Surely you understand the kind of message that sends.” 

“Poison is not my chosen weapon, my lord.” 

Memories of a girl with eyes that mirrored his came unbidden. _Do you want to pick some berries? Up north, where the dark ones grow._ Hyperion pushed them away, deep into the recesses of his mind. He had no use for them now. 

“In any case,” Hyperion said, “why would I poison a man who is set to die today? If anything, watching you be gunned down by the Garrison will be more entertaining.” 

Wolff roared with laughter, his voice a painful clacking sound. His fits of amusement soon divulged into painful-sounding coughs, his body shaking with the force of them. Wolff had not been the strongest man when he had come before them in the throne room. He’d lost even more weight since then. The time he’d spent in confinement across Eurydice had taken his strength away, though Hyperion knew that he had once been a formidable opponent. 

“So,” Wolff drawled, “that is how the Viper plans to do it, eh? Firing squad.” He spat across the cell. It was wet with blood. “Tch. Back in my day, the Sovereign would have used their sword to take a man’s head off. This new blood is weak.” 

Hyperion pulled one of the chairs meant for the guards, making sure to drag the metal seat across the hard floors. Silas hissed at the screeching sound. Hyperion sat down neatly, placing the cup of wine on the ground.

“I’m sure he’d happily oblige,” Hyperion said, studying his nails. “He is more than eager to swing his sword about. He has a golden one now, did you know? A gift for his bravery and open-mindedness, what with his choice in bedpartners. Shall I tell him of your last request, Lord Wolff?”

Wolff scowled, giving him a considering look. Hyperion held his stare, keeping his head high. The werewolf seemed to arrive at some kind of conclusion, though he did not share what it was. Wolff instead snorted, and turned his attention towards the wall in front of him. 

“How fares his little whore?” he asked, teeth bared. “Theron Lycan lusts after power like a bitch in heat. I’m sure his whelp is no different.”

Hyperion shrugged, glancing around the decrepit cells. “He is submissive to the Sovereign, as all Potentates should be.” 

“A true werewolf would not submit,” Wolff snarled. “Death before surrender is the way of our people. It has been our way since the old kingdom still stood. Lunae Lumen bowed to neither dragon nor tyrant.” 

“Lunae Lumen did choose death before surrender,” Hyperion agreed, crossing his legs. “Initially. Where is your beloved kingdom now, my lord? If the werewolf kings had been more practical, Lunae Lumen could have become the seventh region.” 

“They chose to die as their own kingdom, rather than become a pawn in someone else’s.” 

“Yet the Annex was created anyway. Your great wolves were reduced to whimpering pups, obedient to the Red Throne,” Hyperion smirked. “Does it make you upset to know that history is repeating itself? Does it hurt to see that your countrymen, ah, _sought the embrace of their enemies?_ ”

Wolff had risen from his small cot, rage alight in his eyes. Despite the doses of moonpotion that had been forced upon him, he still managed to Shift such that his teeth were large and sharp. The nearness of the full moon combined with the bloodlust from his abrupt removal from power must have given him the strength to maintain some control over his abilities. Hyperion had to commend the man on his sheer willpower. 

“Are you sure you don’t want some wine?” Hyperion asked. “You seem a bit stressed.” 

“Why are you here, leech?” Wolff hissed. He approached the bars, movements slow and ungainly. Even now, isolated in his cell, he was encumbered by heavy restraints. 

Hyperion stood from the rickety chair, lifting the cup of wine as he did so. He strolled leisurely towards the werewolf, stopping just out of arm’s reach. The stink of weeks in captivity wafted from Wolff, but Hyperion kept his face pleasantly impassive. 

“The Rosemonts faded,” he said, “as will the Wolffs. All of you will be put to death, and your lands and holdings will be given to the clan that was foremost in your destruction. Soon, you will be nothing but brief mentions in children’s songs. As we speak,” Hyperion lied, “Julius Wolff awaits us in the Redfyre Palace.” 

Wolff spat once more. “Come to sway me with tales of my idiot son?” he asked. “Perhaps the Viper will marry him, too. He seems to have a taste for our kind.” 

“What if I said that I could see your clan restored?” Hyperion drawled. He maintained an air of indifference all the while. 

“You can say it all you want,” Wolff sneered. “I know for a fact that the Usurper will not kill my granddaughter. She roams about my castle, a meek prize on display. Like as not, that scheming thief means to use her to hold the Annex.” 

“Which means that the Lycans have not fully secured it.” 

Wolff gazed at him suspiciously. “You are unusually concerned about restoring the Wolff name, bloodsucker. Why should I listen to you?” He narrowed his eyes. “Who even are you?”

“Hyperion Tydus,” he replied. “Head of the Tydus Clan, Lord of Dragonfyre Keep, and the Master of Defense.” 

Wolff cackled at his response. “A Tydus stealing away to offer wine to the enemy of his liege. What is a Tydus to a Caedis? Your clan will always come second to theirs.” 

“What is a Wolff to a Lycan?” Hyperion countered. “Theron Lycan sits in your keep, bearing your titles. The Lord of Scarwood Hold, he’s called now. The Annex is his to command,” he allowed the silence to linger for a moment, “but he does not command all of it.” 

“And how do you know this, pray tell?”

“I have a storyteller in my service.” Hyperion finally closed the distance between them, and rested the wine cup against the bars. Wolff regarded it coolly. 

“The Caedis Clan is in power because one person believed that it was the will of the gods,” Hyperion said lowly. “What is given can be taken away. You want to take what is owed to you. As do I.” 

He pressed the wine towards the other man. After several heartbeats, Wolff finally accepted the cup. Hyperion smiled as he drank fervently, gulps loud and ringing. _It seems not even he is immune to the fear of death._

Hyperion refilled the cup once it was empty. He continued speaking as Wolff drank his fill. 

“I’m sure you’re aware of the events of the Liberation,” he said. “Care to remind this foolish youth on what transpired?” 

Wolff snorted. “Caedis led the charge through the lands where his father was slain. A shock that he did not die. He even deigned to tread upon the sleeping giant that is Coven. I thought the Viper was meant to be intelligent.” 

“The death of his darling wife made him more suggestible. I made a few suggestions.” 

Hyperion took the empty cup and returned to the chair. He did not fill it a third time - two cups of strong wine were more than enough for the man. Hyperion linked his fingers together primly. 

“I control the Garrison,” he said idly. “You would be surprised at the lengths that they would be willing to go at my behest. Whatever I demand, my loyal soldiers will provide. If I were to request that they … misplace a certain werewolf before his execution, then it would be so.”

“Why should I trust you?” Wolff glowered at him, eyes hazy from too much alcohol and not nearly enough food and sleep. 

Hyperion ran a hand through his hair, admiring the blond strands. “You shouldn’t. I’ve offered you nothing beyond abstractions and vague possibilities.” 

“Then why. Are. You. Here?” 

Hyperion smiled, leaning forward in the chair. His ice-blue eyes locked with Silas’ faded orange ones. 

“I’d like to make a deal.”

***

“You’re late,” Ayden said. 

“My apologies, Your Majesty,” Hyperion stopped at his side, and bowed politely. “I had some matters to attend to with Colonel Castleton, as is required of my station.” 

The two vampires stood in Fort Imperial, atop a slight incline overlooking the yard. Ten Garrison soldiers were arranged in a neat row. They stood at attention, rifles resting on the ground by their feet. Their uniforms were crisp and clean. Hyperion felt a sense of pride as he watched them. 

_This is my army,_ he thought fiercely, _no matter what the Sovereign thinks._

The banner of the crown blew gently in the wind. It was warmer this far south of the Ironhill, though not by much. Hyperion refrained from placing his hands within his pockets. The sun was a weak ball of light, though the thin layer of snow was enough to scatter its rays unpleasantly. Ayden was glaring at the stone wall in the center of the fort. Whether this was from anger or the sunlight, Hyperion could not say. 

“A lyre for your thoughts, Your Majesty?” Hyperion said. 

Red eyes darted towards him, before returning to the wall. “The realm is a chessboard,” Ayden said darkly, “and there are too many queens in play.” 

Hyperion hummed at the classic chess analogy. An excellent strategist, their Sovereign was. The two men had enjoyed a riveting game or two. Unpredictability was the man’s highest skill, but Hyperion had learned the method to his madness. Caedis was a snake in the grass. He concealed his movements, distracting opponents with deceptions and red herrings until he was poised to strike. _A viper indeed_. 

“Does that make you the king?” Hyperion asked. 

“The king might be the most important piece, but it is no better than a pawn. I’d rather be the queen.” 

Colonel Castleton emerged from the prisoner’s barracks. She was followed by several of her subordinates. Behind them was Silas Wolff. He was dragged across the yard by the soldiers, snapping and snarling. Hyperion maintained a neutral expression. Beside him, Ayden tensed and narrowed his eyes at the werewolf. 

“The _only_ queen,” Ayden hissed. 

They were not so different. If Ayden was a viper slithering under one’s feet, then Hyperion was the unnoticed flame that grew into wildfire. His parents were nothing but dying embers – he would be an inferno. 

_There are two queens, Your Majesty,_ he thought. _Soon, Eurydice shall have only one. But it will not be you._

Wolff was positioned in front of the wall, completely at the mercy of the Garrison. Colonel Castleton gave an order, and his back was turned towards them. His blindfold was removed, leaving him exposed and unaware of what was happening behind him. Hyperion stepped forward.

“You stand before Ayden Caedis I,” he said, voice ringing clearly across the quiet yard, “Sovereign Ruler of the Kingdom of Eurydice, Head of the Caedis Clan, and Governor of Sanguis.” 

“I know who the fucker is,” Silas replied. 

Hyperion pressed on. “You have been tried and found guilty of several counts of high treason, amongst other crimes. Before the sights of gods and men, you are sentenced to die. Have you any final words, Lord Wolff?” 

“Shoot me in the front, you bastards. I will not die facing a wall.” 

“Granted,” Hyperion said. 

He waved a hand, and Castleton’s soldiers repositioned him such that they could all see his face. Hyperion took his fill of the man. Tall, stooped, and gaunt stood Silas Wolff. His white hair was long and stringy, matted from months of improper care. The clothes at his back were soiled from the various cells that he’d graced with his presence. He looked no different from a beggar on the streets of Starkhall. 

_To think this was once a feared commander. Here stands Silas Wolff, the man who nearly brought the kingdom to its knees._

Hyperion had spoken to him about the Invasion of Stepes, back when he was still trapped within his cell. _Daron Wolfrose was not even from the Annex,_ Hyperion had pointed out. _He was from Stepes. Why start a war for a man that was not one of your subjects?_

_He was a werewolf,_ Wolff had responded. _That is what mattered. Vampires feared werewolves after the Bloody Serpent’s bitch died. Werewolves hated them in return. With fangs bared and claws sharpened, what better time to start a war?_

Their eyes met briefly, and Hyperion gave him a near-imperceptible nod. Wolff tore his gaze away, levelling the Sovereign with a hateful stare. Ayden met him with indifference. 

“Ready,” Hyperion said. The soldiers moved to obey. 

Werewolves were loyal creatures, Wolff had told him. The Wolffs were one of the oldest clans in the Annex; in all of Eurydice. Theron Lycan may be heralded as a saviour – the hero that ended the war - but there were clans that still remembered which family their allegiances should lie with. 

With the Sovereign’s tightening hold on the Garrison, Hyperion would need secondary forces. He was aware of the unrest in the Annex. Theron Lycan’s reports were not as optimistic as they seemed – a number of clans did not support his ascension. Hyperion had learned this from the Garrison unit he’d left stationed in Lupus Crossing. All Hyperion had needed was their _names_. 

Now, he had them. 

“Aim,” Hyperion called. The soldiers mounted their firearms, and directed them towards Wolff. He peered down their barrels defiantly. 

In exchange for the names of those still loyal to the Wolff Clan, Hyperion would release the wolf from its cage. What was a snake to a feral wolf? He smiled.

Snakes, wolves, towers, it made no difference. They would all be swallowed up by the flames. 

_The realm is a chessboard with too many queens. How nice to remove some._

Ayden stepped in front of Hyperion. He raised his hand, taking charge of the Garrison. Hyperion relinquished control easily, though he seethed internally. He did not take kindly to others meddling with his army. 

The Sovereign stared at Wolff for a moment, before nodding. Wolff’s eyes drifted to Hyperion for a split second. The blond vampire looked on calmly. Reyna had once questioned his ability to conceal his movements. She’d praised her own skills at the expense of his, yet she seemed to forget who had taught her how to subdue one’s enemies. 

_Well, sweet sister, consider them concealed._

“Fire!” Ayden commanded.

The shots rang out across the yard. Wolff’s snarl was cut short as the bullets pelted his frail body. Blood spattered against the wall, a masterpiece of destruction. Hyperion and Ayden watched the art unfold, unflinching. Wolff’s body wavered for a moment, before crumpling backwards onto the ground. 

Silence was next to ring across the yard. The winter birds in the nearby trees had stopped singing. The Garrison soldiers lowered their weapons. 

The Sovereign and the Master approached the shattered shell of a man. Dark blood flowed across white snow, stained rivers mapped out beneath him. Silas Wolff had died as he lived: eyes wide in loathing, lips pulled back in rage. He’d even Shifted once more, claws wickedly sharp. Wolff had stared into the eyes of death – ten dark, hollow rifle barrels – and he’d chosen death before surrender. 

Ayden looked down at him with an indecipherable expression. He turned and stalked away, head held high. Hyperion spared one last glance at the man before following him. Colonel Castleton issued several instructions and the soldiers began to transport the deceased man. He would be given an improper burial – a warning to those who dared oppose the crown. 

Hyperion folded his hands neatly behind him with a satisfied smirk. Wolff should have known better than to trust promises made by a free man from the other side of a cage. He glanced at the Sovereign’s back as he walked. 

Fire consumed indiscriminately, and left naught but woe to those it conquered. Hyperion was going to take what was owed him. A smile forced its way across his face, leaving him feeling light and giddy. 

Oh, there was so much he was going to take.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spotlight: Gideon Rosemont 
> 
> Frequently referred to as the Tyrant or the Tyrant of the Rose, Gideon Rosemont is a black spot on Eurydicean royal history. A powerful mage, Gideon led the First Mage Uprising and seized control of the Red Throne from the ruling clan. He had the remaining Bloodworths and many of their supporters executed, and installed his own friends and family into places of high power. Incredibly narcissistic, he declared the dawn of the Rose Era after forcing the Grand Seer to endorse his ascension. Gideon is responsible for the dissolution of Lunae Lumen and the creation of the Annex, as he forced the werewolves off of their ancestral lands during the infamous March of the Tyrant. He then divided the spoils between himself and his supporters. Parts of Coven, Northern Sanguis, and nearly half of Stepes exist on what had historically been werewolf lands. Gideon Rosemont was eventually removed from the throne when the kingdom united against him. He and many of his friends and family were either killed or ironically imprisoned in the Frostgate Asylum that he had created himself. The Tyrant was executed in Courtmere, before what would become the steps of the House of the Five Faiths.


	23. Light of the Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ayden learns something new.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In a squad, there’s always one person that everyone roasts. Hyperion is that person.  
> I'm debating rewatching FMA and ATLA. Zutara is my favorite ship of all time. Royai is a close second (add Ed and Al as their adopted children and then *chef's kiss*). Braime from GOT/ASOIAF is up there too. Not to talk about V*ltron in 2020 but Klance and Shallura could’ve been great. 😔👉🏾👈🏾. A shame that GOT and VLD were both cancelled before their 8th seasons :)
> 
> CONTENT WARNING: Explicit

Ayden Caedis  
Fort Imperial, 1 Cardinal

***

It had been an uproarious night in the clubs of Briargarden. Selene and Arion were at Ayden’s side, and they’d felt untouchable in the ways that young people always did. The Demons of the East had stumbled into Briarlight arm-in-arm, laughing at another successful endeavour. They’d collapsed into the nearest room with more types of alcohol swirling through their blood than any of them could count. The sounds of Selene and Arion’s slurred recounting of their conquests had lured Ayden into a peaceful slumber.

The next day, Lady Fiona would call him into her solar. Ayden expected her to reprimand him for unprincely behaviour – that night had been wild, even by the Demons’ standards – and had prepared himself for a lecture. Instead, she’d told him that his father had died and it was his time to take the throne.

He’d spend that entire day retching.

Then, he’d steeled himself. Ayden went to the capital, as was his duty as heir apparent. Selene had travelled with him, and they’d faced the world together. By the time he was nineteen, Ayden was married with two children and a kingdom at war with itself.

Now, he only had his children.

 _I won’t complain about no longer having a war to fight,_ Ayden mused, _though I suppose I’m still married._

After moving into the Ironhill what felt like seven lifetimes ago, Ayden had made a list. It had given him direction on the nights when everything felt too much. _Take the throne. Get married. Have heirs. Kill Silas Wolff. End the war._

He rested his head against the vehicle’s window, watching the trees and scattered settlements as they drove away from Fort Imperial. Silas Wolff’s execution had proceeded as planned, and Ayden could cross the final item off of his list. His eyes drifted to where Hyperion sat at the opposite end of the limousine. The man looked at ease, laying his head against the back of the seat. His eyes were closed, though Ayden could tell from his breathing that Hyperion was still awake.

Ayden ran through his list one last time. _Take the throne._ He’d done that. _Get married._ He’d also done that, though more times than he had anticipated. _Have heirs._ As soon as Ayden ascended the throne, he’d been strongly advised to reproduce. He loved the twins wholeheartedly, but he wished that he’d not been so young when they were born. Ayden had practically been a child raising two others. _Kill Silas Wolff. End the war._ Their positions had been swapped, but he’d now completed both.

Ayden wondered what he was to do next. The uncertainty of the future set him on edge.

He’d technically been alive in a time when Eurydice was relatively peaceful, but it surely did not count if he could not remember it. Peace in all of the kingdom was as foreign a concept to him as it would be to a child born from the War Era. Ayden sighed. Gods, his own children were thirteen already. Where had his life gone?

Months fighting in Stepes had distracted him from the pain of losing Selene. Then, after the Liberation … Ayden shook his head. It was best not to dwell on who he’d been after he’d lost her; who he had nearly become. That was one of the lowest points in his life - when he’d returned to the capital, looked at Lucien and Esme, and felt all of his rage and grief and bitterness turn on him. Ayden had hated himself in the moments when they’d held him and asked him why he’d left. Gods, they’d been so young. If he or Arion had died, then…

But they survived. That’s what mattered. Even if he gave them nothing else, Lucien would not rule during a civil war. Esme would not have to worry about taking the throne should her brother die defending it. It was a comforting thought, one that made Ayden feel like less of a terrible person.

Their procession drove through a sleepy village, and Ayden studied his subjects as they went about their day. A few threw them passing glances. Eurydice was a huge country; the largest in the world. Even with the Governors and the Inner Circle, there were so many lives that rested in Ayden’s hands.

Before he could spiral down a path of self-doubt, a storefront caught his eye. Several animals were advertised through the listings of the shop. Ayden beckoned for the driver to stop, and his command was promptly obeyed. Hyperion opened his eyes, giving Ayden a confused look as he exited the vehicle.

“I’m going to see a man about a dog,” Ayden said by way of explanation.

Ayden waved off his security detail, entering the shop unaccompanied. A bell rung quietly as he pushed the door open. He seemed to be the only one present. Several cages lined the walls, each boasting a different animal. Ayden stared intensely at a red-eyed vampire-cat, before the clerk noticed his presence. He rushed forward from a room in the back, clasping his hands in apology. Many scars - likely from a life spent handling animals - lined his hands. The small staff in his pocket revealed his status as a mage.

“Greetings, my lord,” he said, voice high and shaky. “Welcome to my shop. May I interest you in anything?”

Ayden tore his eyes away from the vampire-cat as it hissed at him. He regarded the willowy man idly, trying to decide if anything was of interest to him. He’d had a reason for interrupting their journey back to the Palace, but it had briefly slipped him.

“You may,” Ayden said as he racked his brains.

The clerk nodded eagerly. “Very well, my lord. My folks call me Sal. Follow me if it please you, sir, and I will show you the finest animals I’ve raised.”

Ayden perused the stacks with Sal, listening as the man chatted excitedly about each one of them. Most of the animals stared back at him curiously, a few tapping on the bars of their confines. A bouncing, fuzzy creature made odd chirping noises at Sal. The mage cooed back at it, interrupting the lesson he’d been giving on the proper care of firebeetles. One began nibbling on Sal’s sleeves as he caressed it.

“You’re a bit of an air-head, aren’t you?” Ayden laughed.

Sal sighed dejectedly. “You sound like my mothers, sir.”

A slithering mass drew Ayden’s attention away from the giant insects. Ayden walked towards a glass enclosure bearing several snakes. He clicked as he remembered why he’d entered Sal’s shop. Esme had once asked him if she could keep a snake in the Palace. He’d gently denied her request, but he was feeling sentimental today.

“What are these?” Ayden asked. They looked like regular snakes, but he wouldn’t put it past the mage to be harbouring supernatural beasts. Their distribution in Eurydice wasn’t illegal, per say. The more dangerous ones were just highly regulated.

Sal trotted to his side, squatting so that he was eye-level with the snakes. “These are domestic basilisks,” he said. “Truly magnificent creatures. They’re intelligent enough to be trained if one starts while they’re young. The ones in here hatched a few months ago.”

Ayden watched as one flicked a forked tongue at him. “How big do they grow?”

“As big as you’ll allow,” Sal smiled. “Keep them in here, and they will be the size of ordinary serpents. Allow them to roam free, however, and they can fill half a room with their length.”

Ayden crossed his arms and drummed his fingers thoughtfully. _This should be fine, right?_ He wondered. _If Esme keeps it locked up for the most part, then there will be no issues._ Another basilisk lifted its head and weaved around in a serpentine dance. _Perhaps I’ll get two. One for Esme, and one for Lucien._

He told Sal of his plans, though he left out the names of his children. Sal did not seem to recognize him as the Sovereign, and Ayden was enjoying the break from responsibility. He chose two basilisks on a whim – one red, one white – and allowed Sal to handle them. Sal magicked the reptiles out of their prison, all the while recommending the types of enclosures Ayden should purchase to house them. The basilisks writhed and hissed at the disturbance.

Ayden nodded along, more interested in the man’s glowing runes. He’d grown up surrounded by elemental magic, but Ayden found it just as enjoyable to watch alchemy being performed. Arion’s betrayed face flashed in his head. Ayden chucked quietly. He was preparing to pay Sal for his services, before another creature crossed his mind.

“Do you have any dogs?” Ayden inquired. “I can’t remember if I saw any on our little tour.”

“I have one left,” Sal said. “A pup. A moment, please.”

He ran to the opposite side of the store, leaving Ayden alone with the disgruntled basilisks. They peered at him petulantly from the small, clear box that Sal had placed them in. Ayden tried not to feel _too_ sorry for them. It was only temporary; Fort Imperial wasn’t that far from the Ironhill. The basilisks would soon be in their proper enclosures, and Ayden could pretend that they did not exist.

Sal returned and proudly presented him with a wriggling puppy, one much larger than average. Its gray and brown fur was thick. The puppy wagged its tail, licking Sal’s cheek. The mage kissed its nose affectionately.

Ayden raised a brow. “Are you sure that’s a pup?” he asked sceptically. “It’s a bit on the huge side.”

“Isn’t she, my lord?” Sal gushed. “Fluffy here still has more room to grow. Her breed is known for their fearsome size. For both of your sakes, I hope you have an estate large enough for her. I hate keeping her cooped up in my store. She deserves plenty of space to run free.”

“I think where I currently reside will suffice.”

Lady Fiona had never really allowed pets in Briarlight, and Ayden had been too busy to get one after his ascension. Consequently, he was not the most well-acquainted person with animals. He could ride well enough, but horses were where his knowledge stopped. Ayden quickly purchased the basilisks and the dog before he could change his mind.

Sal helped him transport his new goods outside, a beam on his face. He faltered at the imposing assembly of automobiles, giving Ayden a curious look. Ayden refused to answer his unspoken question. Hyperion was leaning against their vehicle, looking bored. He blinked with surprise at the dog.

“You literally went to buy a dog,” Hyperion deadpanned. “I thought you were just being cryptic.”

Ayden shrugged as he offloaded the animals. “Bought a couple of snakes, too.”

The two men entered the vehicle, and Ayden waved Sal off. The driver resumed their path back to the capital. Soon enough, the village gave way to empty land. Hyperion kept glancing warily at the two basilisks that were seated in the space between them.

“Are you fond of snakes, Your Majesty?” he asked, brows furrowed.

“I don’t know shit about snakes. My children asked for them.” _Well, Esme did. I assumed Lucien would want one by extension._ “You’ll understand someday when you have your own. Why don’t you have children yet, anyway?”

Hyperion huffed, awkwardly pushing the dog away as it pawed at him. Ayden watched in amusement as the prickly man was besieged by a whirlwind of fluff and tongue. Hyperion soon gave up, allowing it to settle across his lap.

Ayden had seen many men die in his lifetime; had been the cause of some of their deaths. It was standard during warfare. Yet Wolff’s execution had left him feeling different. The list he’d kept for over a decade had been completed. Ayden felt weightless. He wasn’t sure if it was a good or bad sensation.

His lingering thoughts of Silas Wolff and the past were soon chased away by Hyperion’s put-upon expression. Whatever the future held, it could not be worse than the last Era.

\---  
_The Ironhill_  
\---

They arrived at the Redfyre Palace during the mid-afternoon. Lucien and Esme were still with their tutors, so Ayden had the basilisks delivered to the wing designed for royal heirs. The twins could decide between them which ones they wanted to keep. The dog had been sent for grooming, and would be taken to Quill’s quarters once its handlers had it cleaned. All in all, Ayden was feeling quite good about himself.

“Imagine sobbing in here,” Ayden said, gazing up at the high ceilings. “The acoustics alone would be incredible.”

Ayden sat in one of the leisure rooms in the Palace. It was circular, with several chairs scattered about in tasteful arrangements. A grand piano rested in the center. Ayden absentmindedly played one half of a duet as Arion rummaged through the bar in the room. Lucien had always loved the arts, and would craft little songs for Ayden and Selene when he was younger. His son and his wife often played duets together. Ayden had been content watching them, but he’d learned to play the piano after Selene died so that he could fill her parts.

“You say the most concerning shit sometimes,” Arion called from the bar.

Ayden smirked, deliberately switching to a sadder tune. Reyna scoffed at the change. She walked towards the large record player, and began rifling through the disks. Once satisfied with her options, she played an upbeat track. Ayden ceased fiddling with the piano at the lively music.

“Must we drink so early in the day?” Hyperion sighed.

“Let me have this!” Arion said. “Gods, cheekbones. Don’t suck the joy out of me. Life is short – not Silas Wolff’s, though. His was too long, but he’s gone now. This is cause for celebration!”

The elf found what he’d been searching for, bringing two large bottles of a clear alcohol. Arion placed them on the low table between the chairs Reyna, Hyperion, and Quill were reclining on. Trays bearing ice, fruit, and colourful drinks had been brought in earlier.

There was a gloomy air about the werewolf. Ayden left the piano, and joined Quill on his seat.

Ayden’s eyes widened when he saw the label on Arion’s bottles. “No way, Arion,” he chided, relaxing against the chaise. “The last time I drank that, I woke up in a different city.”

“That was entirely your fault, was it not? No one told you to match an orc shot-for-shot.” Arion returned with five glasses. He laid them out for each of the room’s occupants, before lifting one of the bottles and shaking it vigorously.

“A shot of vodka,” Arion grinned, doling out amounts that were certainly _not_ one shot. Ayden sighed in amusement.

“Arion,” Reyna drawled, “do you know what a shot is?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Would you prefer a Bloody Mary?”

Ayden gagged at the thought. He collected two glasses from the table, handing the other one to Quill. His husband took it with little protest, though he did not look like he was enjoying himself. Not for the first time since his return from Ancient, Ayden wondered what was troubling him.

“Are you alright?” Ayden asked quietly. “You don’t have to drink if you don’t want to.”

“No, it’s fine,” Quill said. “Arion’s right. This is cause for celebration.”

Ayden nodded, and the five of them raised their glasses in toast. He would have invited the Inner Circle – the full Inner Circle – but Ayden was unsure of their interest. Lyra Livingstone was still settling in, and he doubted that Fiona would want to slam vodka with people half her age.

An ever-dutiful bartender, Arion began mixing various drinks. Ayden made himself a bright blue one, amused by the colours. He held his drink in one hand, and idly stretched his other arm along the back of the seat. Quill remained reserved, though he would cast glances outside of the window periodically. The easy chatter, the medley from the record player, and the warmth of the vodka had Ayden feeling serene.

“Wouldn’t it be funny,” Ayden joked, “if I just prohibited alcohol? I bet no one in the kingdom would expect that.”

“I’d have to kill you, I’m afraid,” Arion responded. “Nothing personal, Ayden.”

“I’d help him,” Reyna said solemnly. Hyperion nodded along with her.

“Beware the Ides of March,” Ayden laughed. “What about you, Quill? Are you part of their regicide plot?”

Quill jumped in surprise as Ayden spoke to him. He furrowed his brows, looking completely lost. The werewolf must have been tuning them out, Ayden realized. Ayden traded glances with Arion, and the elf clapped his hands and called for a drinking game. Quill relaxed at Ayden’s side as their attentions were pulled away.

This game was a Eurydicean classic. Two people would consume a bitter liquid, and the first person to react would lose. The matches would continue with each victor facing against another, until only one winner remained. The objective was to prove that one was skilled in controlling their facial expressions. Arion poured four shots, wisely choosing to leave Quill’s glass alone.

The starting round was between Arion and Reyna. Vampire and elf squeezed a slice of lime into their mouths, before linking their elbows together. Their vodka was slammed back a moment later. Arion flinched after a few seconds, giving the victory to Reyna. She smirked in triumph. Ayden and Hyperion repeated the process, and Ayden claimed an easy win. Arion took the battle for third place. The two victors stared each other down after drinking, neither allowing their instincts to take over. They both grimaced simultaneously.

“I think Reyna won that one,” Arion said. “Definitely saw Ayden cringe first.”

“That’s the smartest thing you’ve said all day,” Reyna replied. They laughed good-humouredly. Ayden plucked a dark grape from the bowl, popping it into Reyna’s mouth.

“Shhh,” he stage-whispered. “Just admit that it was my game.”

Quill stood abruptly, looking at the four of them impassively. Aside from their earlier toast and a few sporadic sips, his drinks went untouched.

“I have to leave,” Quill stated blandly. “I’ll be in my wing if anyone needs me. Though, I’d advise not needing me for the rest of the night.”

Ayden smiled at him. “Off to spent time with your new puppy?” he joked. “I went to great lengths to get it, you know. I think a ‘thank you, dear husband’ is in order.”

“A puppy for a puppy,” Reyna giggled. “How precious.”

“Reyna,” Ayden warned playfully.

“Thank you, dear husband.” Quill’s response was flat. “Can I go now? If you’ll allow it.”

 _What the hell?_ “You don’t need my permission. Do what pleases you. See you tomorrow?”

Quill hummed, and quickly excused himself from the room. Ayden watched him exit. He glanced back at the others, completely baffled.

“What is wrong with him?” Ayden asked. _Is he still angry about the Master of Society thing?_

Arion shrugged. “He’s been like that since yesterday.”

“What happened yesterday?”

“He went to one of the schools on the western side,” Arion informed. “Came back looking like someone skinned his kitten. His explanations as to why were unforthcoming.”

Ayden frowned. “He went by himself?”

“Did you want me to babysit him?”

“Gods, don’t use ‘babysit’,” Ayden sighed. “It reminds me of how young he is. I feel like a cradle robber.”

Reyna crossed her legs as she helped herself to more grapes. “It’s not the worst age difference,” she offered. “Gideon Rosemont was nearly in his fifties when he married the teenaged Jayne.”

“Compare me to the Tyrant again, and I’ll have you banished.”

There was a brief pause, before Ayden, Reyna, and Arion broke out in fits of laughter. Hyperion groaned at the sound, lolling his head. His pale eyes were hazy. They all turned towards him with identical looks of exasperation. The man was well and truly hammered.

“Fucking lightweight,” Arion said.

Reyna scowled, helping her brother to his feet. “It seems as if _I’m_ the one on babysitting duty. I swear, the number of times I’ve done this is astounding.”

“Where would men be without women?” Ayden laughed. Reyna huffed in response.

“Women would certainly be better off.”

She bid them good-night, dragging her half-conscious brother with her. Hyperion mumbled vague niceties as he stumbled along. Arion flipped through the records underneath the player after their departure. Ayden glared at the elf.

“You better not play trash,” he called.

The soft strains of one of Harold Tailor’s many love compositions enveloped the room. Ayden groaned at the familiar tune.

“What did I just say, Arion?” he hissed.

“You told me not to play trash. I obliged.”

Arion returned with a magazine on automobiles, flipping through the illustrations. They sat in an amicable silence broken by Arion’s occasional requests for vehicle opinions. Most were acceptable to Ayden, though one caught his fancy. He immediately placed it at the top of his high-priority list. Surely, he was allowed to spoil himself.

“Hey, Ayden,” Arion drawled, “I heard you purchased some snakes. That’s all well and good, but how the hell are you going to feed those things?”

 _Shit. Where does a person even buy basilisk food?_ “I’ve got it figured out.”

Arion hummed knowingly at him. A few attendants entered the room, and began to clean up the table. The sun was fully setting, and Ayden admired the sky as it burst into various colours. He looked out of the window, studying the parts of the city that were visible from the top of the Hill of Iron. The Ironhill had initially felt cold and claustrophobic compared to Briargarden’s lush richness, but Ayden had grown accustomed to it.

Esme’s voice drifted through the hallways. Lucien’s dour responses followed. It was nearing nightfall; they must have finished with their studies. Ayden poked his head of out the room, smiling at them in greeting. Esme’s damp, curling hair bounced as she bounded over to him. Ayden blinked as the white basilisk peered at him from across her shoulders.

“We found the snakes, father!” Esme squealed, taking up a perch near Arion. The elf grimaced as she wrapped the basilisk around her arm. “They’re delightful. This one will be mine, I think.”

“Where is yours?” Ayden asked his son. “I bought two.”

Lucien shrugged. “In my chambers. I’ll deal with it later.”

“The seller said that they could be trained,” Ayden said, looking at both of his children. “You wanted these animals, so make sure that you train them well. If they hurt you in anyway, nothing in this world will stop me from killing them.”

Esme and Lucien nodded at his tone. Ayden normally kept things light-hearted with his children, but he was starting to have doubts about the basilisks. He hadn’t even thought to ask Sal if they were venomous. The mage had said that they were domesticated, but Ayden wasn’t sure if that meant that they were safe.

 _Should I have them defanged?_ Ayden wondered as Esme held hers out for Arion to see. _No, it will be fine. Lucien and Esme are growing up. I can’t protect them from everything._ The thought made him feel helpless. Parenting was rewarding, but by the gods it could have one question every decision.

Lucien cut a path to the piano, and began playing over the music from the record-player. Ayden turned off the machine, and joined his son in a duet. Lucien’s work far exceeded Ayden’s, especially since he wasn’t quite as nimble in his somewhat intoxicated state, but he didn’t mind. He’d spent years making sure that his children would have the capacity to be better than him.

“Stroheim’s symphony,” Ayden said, finally placing the tune.

Lucien gave a regrettably rare smile. “Which one?”

“The sixty-ninth.”

“Nice,” Arion and Esme said in unison.

Lucien and Ayden both sighed. They continued playing for a while, though Ayden backed off once Lucien switched to a solo song. He sat across from Esme, watching as she stroked the basilisk that was curled up in her lap.

“One of my ladies-in-waiting recently got engaged,” Esme said, unusually quiet.

“Oh,” Ayden said. “Is that good or bad?”

Esme shrugged. The basilisk hissed at the disturbance, but she calmed it down. “Prince Caspian Trident said that we would get married,” she whispered.

Arion glanced up from his magazine. Ayden raised a brow. “Do you want that?”

“He’s rude. I don’t want to live in the Seas, anyway.”

Lady Fiona had recently been hounding Ayden to find matches for the twins. They were about the age where betrothals were made, but he wasn’t quite ready to see them grow up. He still had a number of years left with them.

“Really? I remember your mermaid phase when you were younger,” Ayden reminisced. “You’d fill up your bath and have me watch you flap around. Ah, life was simple then.”

Esme vehemently shook her head. “Nope,” she squeaked. “Didn’t happen. Don’t remember.” Her sudden movements irritated her basilisk, and it once again hissed. Ayden glared at it, debating the ethics of tossing it out of the window. His daughter seemed to sense his thoughts, as she quickly searched for a topic of distraction.

“Who taught you how to use a sword?” Esme asked.

Ayden blanched at the memory of his old tutor. “The meanest old badger this side of Eurydice,” he said, feeling an old exhaustion. “Every time they swung at me, I thought I would die. Gods, Sinbad was ruthless. I perfected defence in no time. On the positive side, I came out traumatized enough to make me funny.”

“You’re not funny, though,” Arion countered.

“Of-course I am,” Ayden scoffed. “I make myself laugh all the time.”

“Notice you’re laughing alone,” Esme said.

“Lucien thinks I’m funny.”

Lucien looked at him, before returning to whatever composition he’d been running through.

 _So, a regicide really was being planned today._ “You know,” Ayden said petulantly, “your snakes would look wonderful in someone else’s palace.”

Esme gasped, covering what Ayden assumed were the ears of the basilisk. It flicked its tongue at Ayden. He stared back at it in challenge.

Soon, both of his children were yawning fiercely. Ayden sent them off to their quarters. He gave Esme a stern look, instructing her to keep the serpent in its enclosure. Esme responded with a sleepy smile. Moonlight streamed into the room as the four of them said their good-nights to each other. Ayden regarded its fullness, before making his way to the Sovereign’s wing.

***

The light of the moon illuminated the floor as Ayden lay awake. He’d tossed and turned for hours, but sleep remained a fickle mistress. With a sigh, Ayden rose from the bed and began pacing. If he was going to be awake for the foreseeable future, then he may as well do something other than stare at the curtains.

Ayden threw a black coat over his shoulders. He debated grabbing Legionnaire or Eclipse, but ultimately decided against it. A walk through the gardens was unlikely to end in a battle to the death.

The lights in the Palace were never truly extinguished, much like in the Ironhill. Ayden made his way outside with little trouble, listening as the city stirred into the night. His earlier liaison had left him with a dull pounding in his head.

Ayden sat on a bench and looked out over the Iron City. He closed his eyes and leaned back, the cool air ruffling his hair. It helped ease him. He softly hummed a short melody. It was a mostly-forgotten strain that a faceless woman used to sing to him. He did not remember how the rest of it went, and he wasn’t entirely sure he knew the woman who sang it.

High-pitched yapping snapped him out of the doze he’d been falling into. Ayden frowned. He followed the sound, wondering why a dog would be running around the gardens at this hour.

 _Idiot,_ he reprimanded himself. _It is probably Quill’s dog. Why is it out here?_ Ayden turned the corner around a tall hedge, stopping short at the sight before him.

For a moment, Ayden was back on the battlefield. Legionnaire was all that stood between him and the gnashing jaws of a fully-Transformed werewolf. Ayden’s hand ghosted over his side, but he’d left both of his swords indoors. He felt like his heart would leap out of his chest at the revelation.

Then he blinked, and he was once again standing in the gardens. There weren’t thousands of enemies surrounding him; there were no screams, gunshots, or wild magics. This man was not a threat.

“Quill?” Ayden tried. “Is that you?” _Of-course it’s him, Ayden. Which other werewolf would be wandering around the Palace?_

Quill looked up to face him, eyes widening in shock. Ayden studied him curiously. He’d had very few encounters with Transformed werewolves that weren’t attacking him. Quill’s sclera had turned black, his golden irises glowing in the moonlight. Canid ears poked out from his hair. On his hands were dark, curved claws.

“Why are you out here?” Quill asked, sounding panicked.

“Pot calling the kettle black,” Ayden said, walking closer.

Quill tensed, looking like he wanted to escape. His black ears flattened against his head defensively. Though he was not snarling, Ayden could see that Quill’s teeth were larger and sharper. He was clutching a bottle filled with a shimmery-silver liquid.

“Do you always come here during the full moon?” Ayden suddenly realized that Quill had been in the city for many months now. He’d doubtless have had several Transformations since his arrival. _Did I seriously forget that I’m married to a werewolf?_

“I usually stay in my quarters,” Quill replied. He hugged himself in discomfort, eyes looking everywhere but at Ayden. “Alone.”

Ayden stopped in front of him, taking in his features. Quill stared intensely at a pile of snow, his hold on the bottle tightening. His body language was not unlike a cornered wolf. The urge to touch Quill’s ears overcame Ayden. Quill flinched at the touch, shutting his eyes tightly.

“My apologies,” Ayden said, pulling back. “That was improper of me.”

“I-It’s fine,” Quill shrugged. He glanced at Ayden warily. “You can touch them if you want.”

Ayden nodded and resumed his exploration. From this distance, he could see that Quill’s regular ears had been replaced by the wolf-like ones. They were soft to the touch, though Ayden could feel the thin muscle underneath whenever Quill moved them. If Ayden ignored the strangeness of having one’s body change every month, it was almost cute. He added a second hand, smiling at the flush that blossomed across Quill’s face.

“Does that feel nice?” Ayden teased. “A shame that werewolves don’t have tails.”

“Shut up,” he mumbled.

Ayden was pleasantly surprised by Quill’s unusually rough response. His husband typically favoured the well-mannered side. It was a welcome change from their polite conversations.

“You never told me why you’re here,” Ayden said.

“Pot calling the kettle black.” Quill met his exasperated look with one of his own.

Ayden sighed. “Couldn’t sleep. Went for a walk. Found you.”

Quill pulled away from Ayden, watching the dog as it rolled around in the snow. “The puppy kept scratching at my doors. I took it for a walk. Found you.”

“Truly, we are the same sides of different coins.”

Quill offered him a weak smile, watching his dog as it tripped over itself. He put down the bottle in exchange, instead cradling his pet in both hands. It eagerly licked his face. Ayden grabbed the silver liquid, inspecting it.

“Is this moonpotion?” He asked. Ayden swirled the bottle around, intrigued by the shine. “What would happen if I drank it?”

Quill wrinkled his nose. “I’m not sure. You can try it if you’re curious. Don’t take too much, though. I don’t know how it will react to non-werewolves.”

Ayden raised the bottle and poured some of the moonpotion into his mouth. It was bitter. Ayden felt uncomfortable as the taste washed over him. He considered spitting it out, but forced himself to swallow. The innuendo was not lost on him.

“I suppose you should try sanguinem at some point,” Ayden said, capping the bottle. “It’s only fair.”

“I’m not in the habit of drinking blood. No offense.”

Ayden chuckled. “None was taken.”

They sat together on a nearby bench, and Quill once again allowed his dog to run loose. It sniffed along the winter plants, nibbling on a leaf or two. Ayden shivered as a chill breeze passed. He distractedly complained about the cold.

“This is nothing compared to the Annex,” Quill said, eyes softening. “Winter here is fairly tame. Lunares has seen some truly impressive blizzards.”

“The more I learn about your region, the less I want to go there.”

Quill laughed then, a sweet sound. It was gone too soon, as his husband grew contemplative. He turned to Ayden, ears twitching. Ayden instinctively tracked their movements.

“I made a public appearance while you were down south,” Quill confessed.

Ayden remained neutral. “How was it?”

“It was good, and then it wasn’t.” Quill folded his hands in his lap. “There was a man that spoke to me. He told me that his neighbours targeted him for not flying my clan’s banners.” He exhaled. “I expected opposition when I was crowned. Just … not from other werewolves.”

“It was out of your control,” Ayden said gently. “I can take care of it. Just say the word.”

Quill looked at him, eyes sad. “As Potentate, it shouldn’t be out of my control. I don’t want you to handle it. Not by yourself, anyway. I don’t have years of experience like you or anyone else on the Inner Circle, but I _can_ offer something. The left and right are supposed to balance each other. You said so yourself.”

Ayden waited for Quill to continue, unsure of how to respond. He regarded the man quietly, formulating his own words in the ensuing silence.

“They do balance each other.” It was a lacklustre answer. How else was he meant to respond to some of Selene’s final words to him?

“Then why do I feel so useless?” Quill kicked his feet, watching the snow particles that flew up at the action. “I’m no fool, Your Majesty-” Ayden cringed at hearing Quill use his title once again - “I’m aware that this marriage only stands to bring my people comfortably under your thumb. I know a figurehead when I see one – he stares back at me in the mirror every day.”

Quill’s eyes drifted towards the dog. “I thought that I could change that. Make use of the crown that was forced upon me.”

Ayden followed his gaze. This conversation felt like navigating unfamiliar waters. In truth, he’d not expected Quill to have much interest in ruling. He’d assumed that access to the Palace and a personal retinue would be sufficient for filling Quill’s days. Royal chambers and outfits and jewels. His body, if Quill so desired. Even the dog was meant to keep him occupied while Ayden kept on as he’d done for six years now. There was no saying how things would change in the future, but Ayden had prepared himself to handle the kingdom’s affairs on his own for the time being.

“What would you do?” Ayden asked. “As a ruler? I … I would like your insights.”

Quill shrugged. “The effects of the war still linger despite its end. The Insurgency is tied to werewolves, but it did not spring forth from nothing. Wounds are everywhere. You don’t even have to look for some of them. That’s where I would start.” Golden eyes grew distant. “We cry out, yet few listen.”

“How does one listen?”

“Know your subjects.” Quill gave a dry laugh. “ _All_ of them, especially the ones that have endured Eras of pain. It’s hard to do that from inside the Palace.” Hesitation. “The kingdom is divided, and it will take both hands to mend it. Evans is right – not every problem will be so cut-and-dry.”

 _Evans?_ “You seem to have put a fair bit of thought into this.”

“How could I not? I can’t smile and dance and hope everything will sort itself out in the end. Nothing good will come out of my reign if I can’t help one person, let alone millions of others.”

Ayden leaned against the bench, shivering at a cold breeze. He let his mind wander to the Inner Circle meetings that they’d held. Quill was always adamant about personalized approaches, quietly incensed when bureaucracy won out over diplomacy. Ayden could appreciate the value of being amongst the people, but he worried. The old list was completed, everything was different, and he did not know what to do as the gaping maw of the future stared back.

Was this what he was to do next?

A sigh escaped him. He’d been heralded as a young conqueror since his days of leading charges into battle. How easy it was to give impassioned, troop-rallying speeches when the faceless enemies scarcely registered as his own subjects.

Now he’d conquered and taken a werewolf to wed, yet he scarcely knew those who he conquered. Here sat the once Young Viper in the midst of a new Era, debating how to listen to a people whose voices he did not know. 

“What can I do to make you listen to _me_?” Quill asked after Ayden’s reflection stretched on.

Ayden blinked. “What?”

“We’ll never be what Eurydice needs if we can’t work together.” Quill’s ears flattened, his tone growing dull. “I’m always the one initiating between us, whether conversation or physical matters.” The last part was said with an air of detachment. “It would be nice to speak to you without feeling like I’m interrupting something more important. Cerberus loses his charm after the third wall of silence.”

“Cerberus?”

Quill waved. Ayden subtly slid away from his claws. “My guard.”

“Ah.”

Ayden was unsure how to respond to this, too. He did not like to think of Quill as a hostage, but he _was_ from a political standpoint. If the Annex crossed the crown again, Quill’s would be the first head to roll. Peace treaty notwithstanding, a Potentate had few grounds to refuse their Sovereign. Ayden could do whatever he wanted to Quill, and there was no one in the kingdom who could stop him. Their age difference was the cherry on top of an inherently imbalanced marriage.

“I listen to you, Quill. I just thought that you would prefer some distance between us,” Ayden admitted.

Quill furrowed his brow. “Why?”

“I’m responsible for all of Eurydice. Every person answers to me in some capacity.” _Including you. Especially you._ “With everything that I control, I don’t mind letting you take the reins when it comes to matters of a personal nature.” _If this is the one thing that you can decide for yourself, then I will give it to you._

“Oh,” Quill breathed. “You could’ve told me that I was the one setting the pace. I would have actually set a pace. Though,” light slowly filled his eyes, “I suppose it gives me something to look forward to as I spend my days traversing the Palace’s hallways.”

Ayden broke their eye contact, perturbed by the intensity of Quill’s irises against his sclera. He decided to disrupt the tension in the air. Quill was growing stifled in the capital. Ayden could understand that. Mayhap it was time he gauged Quill’s aptitude.

“You wanted to see a Cyran Tourney this year,” Ayden said, “but it is too soon to host one. Be that as it may. Spring is almost here, and we can still enjoy the Celestial Festival.”

His husband gave him a small smile. “I can’t say I’ve lived until I attend one in the capital.”

Ayden returned it. “Perhaps you can start living next year.” Quill cocked his head in confusion. “You wished to leave the Ironhill for Stepes. I’ll grant what I can. We can go to one of the neighbouring cities instead. I know it’s not exactly what you wanted, but-”

“I don’t mind,” Quill interrupted. “Thank you, Ayden. Thank you for the dog, too. And the moonflowers. The gardeners informed me that you’d added them as an exhibit.”

Ayden accepted Quill’s thanks easily, though he felt a little overwhelmed. “You have given me much to think about. You have my thanks in that regard. We can discuss them after the festival.” 

Quill nodded, his smile widening. The dog bounded towards their bench at that moment, fluffy tail wagging. It tried chewing on Ayden’s shoes, but Quill discouraged it with a quiet growl. It was an interesting sound.

“So,” Ayden drawled, feigning disinterest, “are you an omega?”

“ _What?_ ” Quill looked like he’d been hit by a train.

“Aren’t werewolves classified in terms of alpha, beta, and omega?”

Quill’s ears flattened again. “Can _you_ turn into a bat? Where did you even learn that?”

Ayden drummed a finger against the bench. “Independently published literature.”

The werewolf laughed, though he appeared more shocked than amused. His dog settled beneath a shrub, watching them curiously. Quill took several deep breaths to calm himself down.

“I’m a little offended that you picked _omega_ ,” Quill said.

Ayden smirked down at him. “Why?” he asked. “I’d clearly be the alpha between the two of us.”

“Are you sure about that? I was informed that I was the one calling the shots not long ago.”

Ayden traced a finger along Quill’s jawline, narrowing his eyes. He guided the werewolf’s face towards him. Quill’s eyes widened, though he languidly allowed Ayden to manoeuvre him.

“Was that a challenge?” Ayden asked, sultry. “I’m not one to back down from a challenge.”

Quill’s pupils dilated. “There could be anyone watching us,” he whispered.

“The thrill of capture is part of the fun.”

“You wouldn’t,” Quill said. “You’re too vanilla.”

_Vanilla? VANILLA?_

Ayden abruptly pushed Quill down onto the bench. He hovered over him, relishing in his surprised expression. Ayden partially unbuttoned his coat, exposing Quill’s neck. He worked his day down its length and along the visible collarbone, making sure his fangs grazed but did not break the olive skin. Quill wrapped his arms around Ayden’s shoulders with a sharp inhale.

“Quill Lycan,” Ayden purred, “you are nowhere near as innocent as you look.”

“I’d say the same for you,” Quill said breathlessly, “but you don’t exactly scream ‘innocent’.”

Ayden traced a hand along Quill’s body, stopping just beneath his lower abdomen. He smirked at Quill, before moving his head downwards. He was in the mood to try something new.

“W-what are you doing?” Quill asked. A strange expression crossed his face, but it disappeared at Ayden’s teasing ministrations.

“You’re intelligent, Quill. What does it look like I’m doing?”

Quill carded a hand through Ayden’s hair, blessedly mindful of his claws. Ayden didn’t mind a bit of scratching on an ordinary day, but those nails could do some damage if Quill really tried. Ayden was confident that he would win a physical altercation against Quill, but there was no need for that tonight.

“This is not very alpha of you,” Quill joked.

“There are many ways to be in control. Allow me to demonstrate.”

Ayden gripped Quill’s hips, lifting him slightly. He pulled down the waistband of his sleeping trousers with a painstaking slowness. Quill shivered, much to Ayden’s great amusement. His higher body temperature was a pleasant contrast to the Ironhill’s winter air.

“What if someone hears?” Quill whispered.

“I suppose you’ll have to keep it down, won’t you?”

With that, Ayden took Quill into his mouth. Quill moaned, but it ceased when Ayden lifted his head. He held a finger against his lips, smiling sweetly. Quill nodded quickly, covering his mouth with both hands. Ayden held Quill in place, though he did not completely immobilize him. He resumed his task, encouraged by the muffled sounds from his husband. His tongue swirled around in sensual patterns. Quill’s erratic twitches and choked moans were a satisfying reward.

Ayden swallowed him down to the hilt, blinking through his eyelashes when his eyes made contact with Quill's. Olive skin burned a fierce red as Quill floundered. Ayden exhaled and hollowed his cheeks lazily, his tongue licking a long stripe as he pulled his head back. He traced a finger along Quill's stomach, smirking internally as the muscles tightened. Strained keens escaped from his husband as he fought to keep his volume at a discreet level. Ayden took him in in all of his glory, admiring the wrecked man laying so pliantly beneath him. 

The dog watched them from underneath its shrub. It cocked its head and wiggled its tail, fascinated by their antics.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m really out here writing a 6600+ chapter as if I don’t have a final and 2 papers due. Ah well. I’m a woman of the people. Writing smut is hard because the smut words gross me out sometimes. I don't think I could make it in the smut-writing fandom.  
> Does Quill have daddy issues? That's a secret I'll never tell. XOXO, Gossip Girl.  
> Also, his dog is a Caucasian shepherd. I just think they’re neat.


	24. Street Rats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Orion does some soul-searching.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I live in Minnesota, and lemme tell you things are pretty spicy.  
> On a more positive note: I don't watch Haikyuu, but I would risk it all for Kuroo and Ushijima. Send tweet.  
> CONTENT WARNING: Drug use; dubious consent.

Orion Livingstone  
Bergellon, 1 Cardinal

***

Orion rolled over, the hard mattress resisting the movement. The sheets were thin and scratchy. He groaned in irritation, only quieting when he felt the warmth of another body. A smile graced his face, and Orion snaked an arm across a surprisingly firm waist. 

“Why don’t you go lower?” they murmured gruffly. 

Orion shot up immediately, properly looking at them. Messy brown hair fell over a man’s face. Stubble lined his chin, accentuating his thick eyebrows. He was facing Orion, dark brown eyes partially open. Orion blanched. 

“What the fuck, Dante?” Orion squeaked. “ _Did I fuck you?_ ” 

Dante gave him a lazy smile, laughing as Orion’s eyes widened in horror. He sat up slowly, ruffling his already mussed up hair. 

“Relax, man,” Dante said. He gestured to a black-haired woman that was curled up on his side, just out of Orion’s view. “Fucked her, though.” 

Orion breathed a sigh of relief. He removed himself from the bed, grabbing the nearest articles of clothing as he did so. He wasn’t sure if they belonged to him or Dante, but he wasn’t particularly concerned. They were of a similar build, though Orion was smugly taller. 

“Isn’t that the broad that’s been talking to Etienne?” Orion asked. He floated a cracked mirror towards himself, sweeping a hand through his hair to restore its carefully-cultivated style of nonchalance. 

“Uh huh,” Dante replied, watching the floating mirror. “Guess she got bored of him.”

“Then she came to us next. Brilliant. She started out with Xavier, if I recall. She’s really working her way through the whole group.” 

Dante hummed, leaving the bed as well. He gently wrapped the sparse sheets over the sleeping woman’s shoulders. His eyes softened as he watched her sleep. Dante then poked through a pile of items on the ground, clucking in triumph when he pulled out a glass flask. He dug through the nightstand by his bed, procuring a bag half-filled with a dull gray substance. 

“Came to you, actually,” Dante shrugged. He waved the flask around. “Fairymoss?” 

Orion grinned, trotting over to his friend’s side. “Oh, you vixen. You always know how to drag a ‘yes’ out of me.” 

Dante nodded, dipping into his bathroom. Orion studied the surrounding messiness as he waited. Cans and bottles of alcohol littered the dusty floor. There were more than a few broken flasks strewn about, vestiges of Dante’s clumsiness. Orion picked up a green bottle, chugging the remaining drops of last night’s endeavors. 

The door opened, and Dante returned with the loaded flask. He sat on a nearby chair, patting the adjacent seat. Orion joined him, lighting a small flame underneath the flask. Dante huffed, putting away the lighter he’d been reaching for. 

“Mages don’t need lighters,” Orion drawled, swiping the flask. He inhaled deeply, blowing several green rings. His head felt only mildly fuzzy. Whichever type of fairymoss Dante used was weaker than he was accustomed to. 

“I _am_ a mage,” Dante said petulantly. 

Orion leaned back, grinning. “ _Alchemists_ don’t need lighters,” he corrected. “Honestly, I’d be miffed my whole life if I was a mage that couldn’t use magic. That’s rough, Dante.” 

“Thanks, man. I especially enjoyed the part where you rubbed salt in the wound.” 

The two men spent the better part of the morning in this manner, chatting idly. The woman eventually woke up, squealing in embarrassment at her state of undress. She gathered her belongings quickly, tossing a flirtatious goodbye to Orion. Dante watched her go with a dour expression. 

“I’ve been trying to get her specula signature,” Dante sighed. “I swear I’m _this_ close to getting it. Probably could’ve pulled it last night if you hadn’t showed up.” 

“She’s never going to give you her spec-sig.” Orion puffed a cloud of pale red, pouting. It wasn’t quite the pink he was searching for. “She sighs when she sees you at the club.” 

“Fucking hell,” Dante muttered. “I hate it when you’re right. Camille would suck a dick before she gives me her spec-sig. Fucking hell, man. I need something with more kick.” 

Dante combed through his kitchenette, pulling out a small, clear box full of golden flakes. He smirked conspiratorially at Orion as he held out his prize. Orion cocked his head in question. 

“Fairydust,” Dante clarified. 

Orion gaped in shock. “Fairydust is illegal, isn’t it?” he asked nervously. 

“So is fairymoss, but that didn’t stop you from blowing clouds.” 

“But this is, like, _illegal_ illegal,” Orion said. “That’s some actual serious shit.” 

Dante rolled his eyes, stashing the fairydust back in its drawer. “What are you going to do, Governor? Tell your mother?” 

Orion scowled at him. He rose from his seat and stretched leisurely, maintaining an air of indifference all the while. He washed his face in the sink, rinsing out his mouth as he did so. Orion scrubbed at his eyes, hoping to chase away the red tinge in them. 

“I wouldn’t even tell her what I had for lunch on any given day. Besides, I don’t have the time for fairydust. I’m needed in Stonerose.” 

“How are you going to get there?” Dante asked. “Going to take public transportation like us lesser beings?” 

Orion turned to him, shaking out his wet hair. He winked as he slipped his shoes over his feet. 

“Axle, baby.” 

\---

"I thought I told you not to come back,” Axle drawled. 

Orion strolled into Axle’s crowded workshop, wearing an easy smile. He leaned across a bench, watching the mechanic as she tinkered with an old automobile. Her tight black shirt revealed her finest assets quite nicely. She noticed Orion admiring her physique, frowning at him in distaste. 

“I just couldn’t stay away,” Orion answered. 

“Mages tend to stay out of trouble,” Dante said from behind him, “unless they are the ones causing it.” 

Axle rolled her dark eyes, shooting Dante a much friendlier smile. “Hello, Dante,” she said lightly. 

“Axle,” Dante responded. 

Orion pouted as they chatted without him. He rummaged through Axle’s cabinets, grabbing a bottle of beer for himself. Axle glared at him as he pawed through her supplies. Orion blew a kiss at her. He stared at himself in the nearest reflective surface, fixing his hair once more. 

“Well, aren’t you pretty?” Axle sneered. “A pretty little narcissist.” 

“Thank you,” Orion said. “I get it from my mother.” 

“Your horse is a little high, isn’t it? Make sure you don’t fall off.” 

Orion took a swig of the beer, gagging at its grainy texture. He did know why he had taken it – beer was not his drink of choice. _Probably because Axle hates it when I take her bottles,_ he thought in amusement. There was something about riling up the tanned commonfolk woman that brought him a sense of satisfaction. 

“How much for that bike?” Orion asked, interrupting Axle’s conversation with Dante. He gestured to the motorcycle that rested in the corner of the workshop.

“Two hundred crowns,” Axle answered, peering out from underneath the scrappy vehicle. “I’ll bet that’s nothing to you, Livingstone. Never known a day of work in your life. Your type could drop millions and not even notice.” 

“Like you dropped out of Bluerose and kept it hidden from your sponsors? Come on, darling. Don’t pretend that you keep this shop running on pure hard work.” 

Axle narrowed her eyes at him fiercely. She slid out from underneath the vehicle, wiping the grease stains on her trousers. Orion twirled the beer bottle around, tapping it occasionally as she approached. Axle stopped in front of him, placing her hands on her shapely hips. 

“I did that to survive,” Axle snapped. “Why should I spend years at a university learning something that my father already taught me? I don’t need some professor telling me how to install an engine. I’ve been doing that my whole life. Better the money goes to my family and my livelihood than your noble clan’s institution.” 

Orion shrugged, smiling at her playfully. He situated himself on a stool he’d commandeered, leaning back against the drawers and spreading his legs comfortably. 

“Easy, darling,” Orion said. “I’m not the bad guy.” He chuckled at Axle’s cross expression, a similar one coming to mind. “You’re into tech, right? I’ve got a friend that would like you.” 

Axle sniffed as Orion helped himself to a second beer. “Yeah? He cute?”

“ _She’s_ very cute. A bit on the sharp side, but I’m sure you won’t mind. Would I get a reward if I gave you her spec-sig?” 

“Nice try, pretty boy,” Axle said, grabbing a beer herself. She tossed one over to Dante, who fumbled slightly before catching it. “I don’t trust your crowd.” 

“You’d be surprised who I’m running with,” Orion joked. “I know some big names these days. Besides, Axle, we share the same crowd.” 

She raised a sceptical brow at him. “We don’t share the same crowd, I assure you. I seem to remember the Livingstones being a big name themselves. How’s your mother, _Governor?_ ” 

“Who the fuck knows?” Orion muttered exasperatedly.

His cheerful mood dissipated at the day’s second reminder of his future title. He fussed with his black locks, tracing a finger over the slit he’d cut through his eyebrow. The hair was starting to grow back, he noticed. He’d need to trim it down again. 

“Get this,” Orion laughed, “Lady Livingstone is moving to the Ironhill. Yours truly is in charge of Coven while she’s off rubbing elbows with the kingdom’s big cheeses. Stonerose is about to become the party capital of Eurydice.”

Axle fixed her hair up in a ponytail, glancing down at him from where she stood. Orion observed the ripples in her arm muscles as they moved. She was more well-built than the women he usually went for, but Orion enjoyed a good conquest. 

“Does your ma know about your plans?” Dante asked, sidling up to Axle. “I doubt she’d approve.” 

“As if I’d tell her. I’ve always been too rebellious for her refined tastes. The bitch wouldn’t give a shit either way. Lyra doesn’t know what it’s like to have real human emotions. All she cares about is securing political alliances. I could toss myself off the nearest bridge and she’d only be concerned about losing her eldest heir.” 

_That’s not true_ , he heard a voice whisper in his mind. _She wasn’t always like this_. Orion pushed away any feelings of guilt. They wouldn’t change the past, and they sure as hell would not benefit the future. Viewing his mother as her current self was easier than remembering how she’d once been.

Orion had only ever seen Lyra cry once. It was nearly four years ago now, he realized. They’d stood on the docks of Stonerose together, watching as several ships dragged in a tarnished vessel. Tattered black roses on silver sails were all he had needed to see. Lyra had been silent, but Orion swore he heard the drip, drip, drip, of her tears as they landed on the wood beneath them. He’d never wanted to hold her more than in that moment, but she was already gone. His father had vanished, and he’d taken her with him. 

He wasn’t sure why he was opening up to Axle and Dante; wasn’t sure why he was anxious for them to listen. Orion had told them about both of his parents on a few occasions, but he was usually keen to end any conversations that focused on his bloodline. 

“Poor you,” Axle said, bored. 

Orion narrowed his eyes at her. “You have a way with words, you know that?” 

“I’m better with my hands.” 

Orion wolf-whistled at her unintentional double entendre. She wrinkled her nose at him. He took a sip of beer, wandering over towards the motorcycle. Orion stroked a finger over its fine leather seats. He made to mount it, but stopped at a sharp clap from Axle. 

“No way,” she called. “You’re not operating that while you have two beers in you. Don’t think I couldn’t smell fairymoss earlier, either.” 

Orion sat atop it anyway, downing the rest of his beer. He kept eye contact with Axle as the alcohol slid down his throat. The bottle was teasingly rolled to her feet once it was empty. 

“Perhaps I’ll have to stay here, then,” he snarked. “Can you think of ways to sober me up?” He tapped his feet against the motorcycle’s pedals, smiling innocently at Axle’s stormy face. 

“Did your parents never teach you not to play with fire?” she growled. 

“I might need a repeat lesson, darling. Do you want to come and warm me up? If you impress me, I might even pay you more than this bike is worth. Think of it as a gift from a big name. Mage’s honour.” 

Axle grabbed Orion’s hair, painfully yanking him off of the motorcycle. He scowled, prying himself from her tight grasp. Axle met him defiantly. 

“What the fuck, Axle?!” Orion nearly screamed. 

“Will your mother hear about this, _darling_?” Axle asked condescendingly. “Will I lose my hand for striking a Governor’s son? I know your type, Livingstone. No one has ever put you in your fucking place.” 

“What is my place, pray tell?” Orion countered. Dante watched them from where he sat. He’d learned to stay out of Axle’s way when she was in a mood.

“All of you nobles are the exact fucking same. You do whatever you want because your family connections will always cover you,” Axle scoffed. “You like to slum it with us street rats, but at the end of the day there is always a castle and vast fortunes waiting for you. Does it feel nice to have the option to stop fucking around with the peasants because you’re bored?” 

“I-” 

Axle cut Orion off before he could speak. “Oh darling, you consider yourself such a rebel but the gods know you’re not. All I see is a spoiled brat that lashes out because his mommy paid more attention to his daddy.” 

“S-shut up!” Orion interjected. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. Fuck you, Axle.” 

She crossed her arms at his weak rebuttal. “Wouldn’t you like to, Governor?” 

“Seriously. Fuck you,” Orion crossed his arms in return. “In any case, all of your bitching and moaning is getting the little guy excited.” 

“Emphasis on ‘little’.” 

Orion blinked in surprise. “You can’t judge what you haven’t tasted.” 

“I can tell by your general persona. It’s obvious that no one has ever told you to just shut the fuck up.” 

Axle dug through a drawer, pulling out a black cord and a rag. She wrapped the cord around Orion’s hands before he could protest. He raised a brow at her in confusion as she twirled the rag around. 

“I’m going to teach you how to shut up for once,” Axle hissed. “Keep your hands like that.”

Orion nodded hesitantly. He was still pissed at Axle for exploding at him – her words would sting for a while - but this was a new development. _I won’t pass up an opportunity to see what’s underneath her pants,_ he thought excitedly. 

Dante exhaled, making his way towards the door. Orion shot him a superior glance, but frowned when Axle called out to him. 

“Stay,” she said. “I’m sure you’re in need of some action. There’s enough of him to go around.” 

Dante furrowed his brows at her. “I’m not sure about that. My father pointed his rifle at me the last time he found out that I’d slept with a man. Old man never liked me much.” 

“And how did you respond?” 

Orion watched as Dante walked up to them, eyes unreadable. “I fucked the loan shark that he borrowed money from. Got him further in debt. Shark had gangsters pulling up to him in no time.”

 _I … I don’t know these two at all,_ Orion realized. Perhaps bedding Axle was not quite worth the effort. His arm glowed as he channelled magic through a rune, but Axle’s rough hand on his cheek distracted him. 

“What’s wrong, pretty boy?” she asked. “Change your mind?” 

“I don’t like men,” Orion said. “Sorry, Dante.” 

“It will be fun,” Axle purred. “Isn’t that what all of you spoiled brats want? _Fun?_ It’s both of us or neither of us, Governor.” 

Orion looked between them, unsure about himself. Dante was not a bad-looking man, but he did not quite have the parts that Orion was searching for. He’d been under the impression that it would be just him and Axle. The woman in question offered him a sultry smile. Orion gave an uncertain nod, and she wrapped the rag she’d been holding across his mouth. 

He knew that he could feasibly leave; Dante was a mage without magic, and Axle was commonfolk. Some well-aimed alchemy was all Orion would need to free himself from the restraints. He did not even really need the motorcycle. There were other ways of returning to Living Stone. 

Yet, he sought their approval. 

Axle’s words swam through his mind. Orion was ashamed to admit that he wanted them to like him. He deeply inhaled for a moment, allowing Axle to lead him into the personal quarters that were connected to the workshop. Dante followed close behind, but Orion did his best not to think about him. 

Ignoring problems was his speciality. He got it from his mother. 

\---  
_Stonerose_  
\---

Orion kicked his legs onto Lyra’s desk, sifting through the stacks of paper disinterestedly. He’d found his way to Living Stone using the motorcycle he’d purchased from Axle. It’d been about two or three days since his arrival, but he’d quickly grown bored with status reports and financial documents. 

Thus far, he’d been following the outline that the castle stewards had given him. Most of it was not that difficult – sign this, choose between these, deny that. Governing might be monotonous, but it was far from the gargantuan task that his mother made it out to be. 

Orion floated a missive towards himself, perking up at the ‘Charlemagne’ name written across it. He smiled fondly at the memory of the buxom heiress. Echolyse, what a fox. Orion had briefly stopped by the Charlemagne Clan’s keep during his winter travels. He’d been pleasantly surprised with the knowledge that Lady Eleanor had not one but _three_ younger sisters. 

He groaned at the dry read that was their letter. It was some stupid trade dispute with another clan. Apparently, his mother had modified the supply lines throughout western Coven. As a result, the western clans were siphoning commerce from their eastern counterparts. The Charlemagnes were thus requesting alternative routes, many of which fell under the command of other families. 

Orion briefly wondered why Lyra changed the system that she’d held in place for years, but he honestly did not really care. He granted access to the Charlemagnes, dropping the signed document in the outgoing pile. 

_Time to call it a day,_ Orion thought, glancing at the afternoon sky. He disappeared into the cellar and re-emerged with a chilled Briarean white. 

“How I’ve missed you,” Orion sighed as he poured a tall glass of the sweet wine. “The reds really do not compare.” He took a heavenly sip, enjoying the smooth taste. 

Orion decided to take a walk through the compound while the sun was still out. He magicked the rest of the wine with him, strolling around the hedge gardens. They’d been a source of endless enjoyment for him when he was younger. Orion had spent seven years as an only child before Corvus came around. He’d learned how to amuse himself.

The thought of his younger brother prompted Orion to venture up into Living Stone’s rookery. Birds chattered from their enclosure at his entrance. He observed a few of them, before calling out for Corvus. 

His brother poked his head of dark hair out from around a nest, balancing a juvenile peregrine falcon on his gloved arm. Corvus nodded at him in greeting. 

“Hey Corv,” Orion said, “you up for a bit of sport?” 

Corvus shrugged, gently stroking the falcon as it ruffled its feathers. “Sure. I’ve been meaning to train this one, anyway.” 

Orion selected a familiar red-tailed hawk, making sure to slip on the protective gear. The bird hopped onto him easily, sharp eyes staring into his own. He’d learned falconry at some point during his tutelage – it was a Livingstone tradition – but he’d never quite enjoyed it as much as Corvus seemed to. 

The brothers settled at the sea-facing front of Living Stone. They released their respective birds, watching as they soared high over the city. Several gulls squawked out over the Southern Sea, drawing the predators’ attention. They swooped towards them, claws outstretched. Orion could smell the salty air even from the castle’s high perch. He breathed it all in. 

“Orion,” Corvus said quietly, green eyes focused on the traffic below. “Do you remember promising to show me a new rune?” 

“Yeah. Have you decided which one you want?” 

Corvus paused, before nodding slowly. “Specialized ‘fire’.” 

_Specialized? I suppose he’d already have a general ‘fire’ rune._ Orion glanced down at him. “Okay. Go get your conduit, and I’ll carve it for you. I’ve got a toolkit in my chambers.” 

Corvus scuffed the ground with his shoes. His bird returned with a small pigeon, landing on his outstretched arm. Corvus set the pigeon aside, rewarding the falcon for its efforts. He then sent it out for another voyage. Orion watched his hawk as it engaged in an aerial battle with a rather large seagull. 

“I don’t have a conduit,” Corvus said. “Not right now. I fractured mine. Mother was getting me another one before she left. I’m not sure when it will arrive.” 

Orion hummed. “Do you want the rune tattooed instead? I was younger than you when I got one on my body, you know.” 

To most mages, runes were things that they only collected if they meant to use them frequently. This was especially the case when they were carved onto skin. Orion, however, picked up runes at random. If he thought one particularly interesting, he would obtain it. He’d learned how to apply them himself without professional assistance. Installing runes was second nature at this point. 

“I don’t know,” Corvus murmured. “My alchemy is a bit … unstable sometimes.” 

Orion ruffed his brother’s hair, grinning at his surprised look. They weren’t usually very physical with each other. Truth be told, this was the most amount of time he’d spent with Corvus since travelling to the capital. Orion had grown a tad envious of Quill and Isabelle’s close relationships with their own younger siblings. 

“Using your own body as a conduit is more natural, anyway,” Orion coaxed. “Trust me, Corv. I’m the resident rune expert. Have I ever led you astray?”

“Many times.” 

“This won’t be one of them!” 

They waited for their birds to return with their bounties before retreating to the castle. Orion dipped into his quarters and retrieved his old rune kit, dusting off the box. He’d found it years ago, during an exploration of Living Stone’s hidden passageways. The only hints as to its previous owner was a star and the faded initials _LL_. 

He met Corvus in the training yard with sunset upon them. Electricity flowed through the outdoor lights, illuminating the mouth of the mountain. Orion set up shop underneath a lamp. Corvus offered him his right bicep, and Orion began tattooing from memory. He would periodically glance at his own specialized ‘fire’ rune for reference. 

Orion spent the better part of half an hour working on the details of the rune. The magical tools left their black ink on Corvus’ skin with relative ease. He connected the jagged network with a flourish, wiping down the boundaries of the rune. 

“Alright,” Orion chirped after some time had passed. “This is my usual recovery time, so I think that you’re good to go. Follow my lead.”

“Are you sure about this?” Corvus asked. 

Orion nodded. He powered his rune, allowing a small flame to burst forth in his palm. “Just feel the magic flow through you. It won’t be much different from a conduit, except your own body is the conduit. Imagine making a little fire in your hands.” 

The flickering flames reflected off of Corvus’ eyes, giving them a hazel tinge. He turned his palms outwards, inhaling and exhaling evenly. The rune glowed softly, and a little flame materialized. 

Orion smiled encouragingly at him. He held his fire at a low level for several heartbeats, before funnelling more magic towards it. They were working with a specialized rune, after all. Their range was much greater than general ones. His flame grew larger, though it remained contained in his hold. Corvus mirrored him, a nervous smile crossing his normally neutral face as the fire obeyed. 

His brother’s flames flared suddenly, turning a vibrant shade of blue. Orion had just enough time to step back as Corvus directed the hot fire towards the rest of the mountain. The billowing flames cut a scorching path as they travelled. 

Orion waited for Corvus to quench the flames, but his eyes widened when he realized that Corvus was not in control of his alchemy. He cast his strongest barrier over himself, taking up a position near Corvus’ hands. Orion possessed a ‘dispel’ rune, but he could not use it at the same time as ‘barrier’. He’d have one chance to steady his brother with minimal casualties. 

A lull in the stream of fire was all he needed. Orion dropped his shield and grabbed his brother, aggressively overriding the wild magic. The flames ceased seconds later. They were both breathing hard at the end. Around them, the air was hot and dry. 

“Echolyse’s tits,” Orion gasped, at a loss for words. “We’re going to need to work on that.”

“I know,” Corvus replied softly. “I’m trying. I’m … I’m not like you or mother. Control isn’t easy for me.” 

Corvus stared at his singed hands. He started shaking, and Orion was nearly blindsided when he saw tears leaking from his eyes. Not for the first time, Orion cursed himself for not learning any relevant healing magic. 

“Why?” Corvus whimpered angrily. “Why can’t I just…” His ‘fire’ rune glowed sporadically at his frantic emotions. “This shouldn’t be so challenging.” 

“Hey, hey, hey,” Orion said, cupping his face. “Look at me, Corvus. Look at me. Breathe. In, out. In, out.” Corvus did as he bid. “Yeah, you’re doing great. Keep that up, bud.” 

Ideally, runes would not hurt their users. He’d managed to stop Corvus before either of them was seriously injured, but Orion’s mind was still racing. Power and control were the two pillars of alchemy. Lyra was a master at both, but their father had been average at both. Orion himself wasn’t exceptionally powerful – creativity was where his strengths lay - but he did inherit his mother’s razor-sharp control. 

_Corvus must have her high magic reserves,_ Orion theorized, _though he has none of her precision. That’s the worst possible combination. It’s no wonder he said his magic was unstable._

“Does this always happen?” Orion asked once Corvus was calmer. 

His brother shook his head, eyes trained on the ground. “Only with some of the larger runes,” he whispered. “Fire, electricity,” his voice softened even more, “destruction.” 

“Oh.” It sounded lame, even to Orion’s ears. 

“Mother said that she’d give me a Philosopher’s Stone,” Corvus continued. “I don’t want to use it. I shouldn’t have to. My magic should be able to sustain itself.” 

“Have you told her?” 

Corvus worried his lower lip. “I … I don’t want her to be disappointed.” 

Orion blew a lock of hair out of his brown eyes, kneading his temples. He cracked his back, gazing at the sky thoughtfully. An idea came to him after some deliberation. 

“Let’s get you a gentler rune,” Orion said. “Come on.” 

Corvus shook his head. “No. No more runes.”

“Trust me. Again.” Orion placed his hands on his brother’s shoulders. “Please.” 

Corvus stared at him for what felt like an eternity, before capitulating. He sat down quietly, extending his left arm. Orion dug through the kit, seizing the small book of runes nestled within its velvet layers. He flipped through the pages, clicking when he found the one he was interested in. 

Starlight. A pretty rune that worked best with high control, but would not punish the alchemist. 

It had been a toss-up between this fusion rune and his ‘firelight’, but Orion had eventually settled on the former. Corvus looked like he’d had enough of fire. Orion etched the wispy design onto Corvus’ outstretched arm, doing his best to accommodate his brother’s occasional winces. 

Orion stepped back once he was finished. He gave a demonstration using ‘firelight’, making sure to keep the white flames as docile as possible. 

“Your new rune only works at night,” Orion explained, “when the stars are visible. If it’s anything like ‘firelight’, it will be virtually harmless.” 

Corvus took a deep breath, hesitantly powering the rune. Silvery wisps descended from the stars, collecting in a small ball in Corvus’ palm. He looked at them nervously, breaking his concentration. Instead of spiralling, the silvery wisps only dissipated. 

Soothed by the neutral reaction, Corvus tried again. This time, he was able to wrestle the light of the stars into the vague shape of a bird. Orion gave him two encouraging thumbs-up. Corvus smiled weakly, though this caused the bird to lose its shape. His brother managed to wrangle it into more of a blob. 

“Practice makes perfect,” Orion said, ruffling his hair once more. “We’ve got all of tomorrow, and the day after that. It’s time for bed, yeah? Before that, you should see one of the healers about your burns.” 

Corvus followed him back into the castle, still playing with the ‘starlight’ rune. His bird held its shape much longer this time, prompting a small but pleased smile from the reticent boy. Orion felt warm as he watched his little brother, all thoughts of governing put aside. 

***

Orion stared at the rune emblazoned on his left wrist. It had grown since his adventures through the Annex. He’d added more components to it in an effort to power the damn thing, but results still remained elusive. 

He glanced at a nearby object in his quarters – a pillow – and directed his magic towards the rune. The pillow rose and wobbled ominously. An echoing ring came forth from it, though it was blessedly quieter than any of his previous attempts. He allowed the pillow to flop back unto his bed once it began spinning erratically. 

Orion banged his head against the desk in defeat. He knew he was getting closer to completing the rune, but he wasn’t sure what else to do. If the issue lay in his magical reserves, then Orion was fucked. There was little he could do to change that. The idea of all of his work being for naught because of an innate trait was ironic in a bleak way. 

The sounds of the sea drew his attention. Orion rose from the desk, approaching the window that overlooked the docks. He cracked it open and leaned against the frame, watching the few ships that were departing this late at night. Orion wondered how many of them would return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally done with college. Four years of work, all for a 5 minute video. It's poetic, I think.  
> Orion's bike looks like the 1930s motorcycles. I don't know the breeds - I just think they're neat.  
> Also, I consider the scene with Axle and Dante dubcon because Orion only agreed to have Dante there under pressure.


	25. First of an Era

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Celestial Festival is always memorable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really want Quill to be like Queen Elizabeth with her corgis. Also, Ayden drives a 1920s Rolls-Royce Phantom. It's not relevant to the story, but it's important to me.  
> I made a tumblr for writing! The handle is 'bhaleesi'.  
> CONTENT WARNING

Quill Lycan  
The Ironhill, 1 Cardinal

***

“Wake up,” Quill whispered.

Ayden groaned, burrowing deeper into the blankets. Quill pulled open the heavy drapes of the windows, allowing the morning sunlight into the room. He’d woken up earlier than he usually did, the thought of breaking the monotony of the capital filling him with energy. It had taken him no time to throw a robe over his shoulders and make his way to the Sovereign’s wing. Said Sovereign hissed and drew the quilt over himself.

“Come onnnnnn,” Quill whined, returning to the great bed.

Ayden glared at him, red eyes bleary from sleep. He resembled Viscardi on his more petulant days. Wrapped up in a downy blanket and practically swallowed up by his pillows, Ayden looked no more threatening than a drowsy bat. Quill straddled his husband, wiggling excitedly.

“Come on,” he repeated. “Today is the Celestial Festival! You promised we could leave the city. I’ve been waiting for this for weeks.”

Since their little rendezvous in the gardens, Quill and Ayden had been getting along on much better terms. Ayden had actually began asking for the opinions that he’d deemed valuable, and Quill found that the frosty wall of indifference was melting. He had learned much about his husband since then – Ayden’s sense of humour was strange at times, and the vampire kept the oddest hours. Apparently, Ayden was not a morning person, either.

“When I said the palace was yours,” Ayden mumbled, “that did not extend to my wing.”

He faltered, but regained his resolve at Ayden’s amused smile. Quill pouted as Ayden covered his eyes with an arm. Quill poked his bare abdomen, pausing to admire the ridges. He bounced gently to inspire Ayden to _get up_.

“Careful how you’re moving, Quill,” Ayden slurred. Quill smiled sweetly, repeating his gyrating actions.

“If you’re going to do that,” Ayden said lowly, “then do it properly.” He griped Quill’s hips, modifying his position and bringing him farther up his lap. “There. Now you can continue.”

Quill laughed, extracting himself. Ayden sighed but followed suit. He leaned against the headboard as he stood, grimacing.

“Don’t tell me you’re anaemic,” Quill joked. “Can vampires even get anaemia?”

“I’m just old.”

Quill left Ayden to his devices, reminding him that they would be breakfasting with others. He returned to his wing, preparing himself for the day. Spring was finally bearing upon Eurydice. Quill would miss the snow, but he had to admit that it was nice to wear lighter clothing. His puppy, Crescent, barked at him from her perch at the foot of his bed. Quill rubbed her fluffy ears as he dressed.

Outside, the Ironhill was steeped in activity. Quill peeked at the people that had begun their celebrations early. Streamers, balloons, and other confections decorated the city. Quill had heard that fireworks were commonplace on the Celestial Festival, but it was yet early for them. Perhaps, once they returned, he and Ayden could witness them together.

The royal dining room was ready to host guests when Quill arrived. Arion and Lady Fiona were already present. Quill issued a greeting to the elf and his sharp-tongued mother. Even Lady Sylph had nothing to protest about the fine spring day. Quill acknowledged the attendants present, earning warm smiles from many of them. He sat down at his preferred chair, making friendly conversation with the people around him.

Esme was the first Caedis to trudge in. Ayden was next, hair damp and shirt partially unbuttoned. He sat down roughly, looking miserable. The prince followed, equally miserable. A cloud of gloom loomed over them. An attendant quickly drew the curtains, switching to electrical lighting.

“The Great Count rises from his slumber,” Arion smirked.

Ayden glared red daggers at him. “Shut up, fairy,” he hissed.

“Elves are _not_ fairies, by the gods. Do you see any wings on my back?!”

Fiona nettled Ayden and Arion over their boyish banter. Quill helped himself to some eggs and sliced ham, appreciating the smoky flavours. Tea and coffee were soon poured for the table. Esme stealthily tried to request a cola, but was stopped by a stern glance from the lead servant. She joined her father and brother in their gloom. A distracted huff came from Ayden.

“I put too much sugar in my chai. Now it tastes like a confectioner pleasured himself into it,” Ayden lamented, staring at the masterpiece that was his ruined tea.

Arion scoffed, dropping more sugar cubes into his coffee. “You can never have too much sugar.”

“Arion, you are going to die of diabetes by the time you’re forty if you keep on this way,” Ayden responded. “I, however, plan to die as all good Sovereigns should.”

“With the knowledge that the kingdom benefitted from your reign?”

“No. From complete exhaustion and mental strain.”

The two of them snickered over their drinks. Quill watched them bicker, quietly amused that the realm had been in the hands of these two for so long without collapsing. He spread some butter over a slice of bread, enjoying its warmth and pleasant freshness.

“How could it be that you are both still children, after all I did to raise you?” Fiona asked, sipping her own black coffee critically. “And you, Arion,” the man in question stiffened as his mother’s thorns were directed towards him, “if you must add ten sugar cubes, milk, and chocolate of all things to your coffee then you do not like coffee. Just drink tea like that one over there.”

“Chocolate and coffee are good together. The people from Sol knew what they were doing when they combined them. You’re just mean,” Arion protested.

Fiona scoffed at the two of them. Quill did not miss the fond smile that she hid behind her elegant cup. Lady Fiona was effectively the queen mother, Quill thought, although he was sure she would have anyone’s head on a spike if they even insinuated that in her presence. _What an interesting little family they must have made back in Briargarden._ Given the close ties between the Caedis and Sylph clans in the recent century, Quill wondered why Ayden and Arion had not been betrothed to each other. He sipped a glass of milk as he pondered their dynamics.

“Are you drinking milk?” Lucien asked. Quill nodded, regretting his choice of beverage. “That is psychopath behaviour.”

Esme wrinkled her nose. “ _I_ drink milk, Lucy.”

“Point made.”

“Lucien,” Ayden sighed. Lucien grumbled out an apology as Esme stuck her tongue out at him.

Once they’d eaten, they broke up into various groups. Lucien and Esme were to stay in the capital for the festival. Fiona informed them of her return to Briar for matters of governance on the morrow, citing that she needed to collect her travel belongings. Quill, Ayden, and Arion would be venturing south of the Ironhill without them.

Quill secured the rest of the buttons on Ayden’s shirt while they idled, biting his lip at the intimacy of the act. Ayden accepted it easily enough. Despite their newfound friendliness, there were still times that Quill doubted himself. Ayden’s admission about his prior aloofness had him questioning which of their interactions were spurred by Ayden’s sense of obligation. The reasons behind his husband’s prior aloofness had merit, but Quill had now shifted from indignance to uncertainty.

“Knock it off,” Lucien said, watching them, “I had no plans of seeing my father fornicating today.”

“Hells yeah,” Arion said. “Teenage rebellion. You show them, Lucien.”

Lucien nodded sagely. “That sounds like a Harold Tailor lyric. He’s a famous singer, by the way. You likely don’t know him.”

“What do you know about Harold Tailor? I’ve been reciting his ballads since before you were born!”

Quill smiled at Arion and Lucien’s conversation. There were few people that the prince spoke freely with. Quill doubted that he was one of them, but it was still enjoyable to see the heir apparent in any mood other than sullen. He’d overheard the palace staff debating the origins of Lucien’s mercurial nature on a few occasions. Quill admittedly did not know much about Selene Caedis, but he’d wager that Lucien’s personality was derived from Ayden.

“Elisabeth is here!” Esme called, waving to a highborn elf girl about her age. The girl waved back from outside. She lifted her skirts and quickly began trotting into the palace.

“Who?” Ayden asked.

“I’ve known her for years, father. You’ve met her several times.” Ayden stared blankly at his daughter. Esme shrugged. “In any case, we’ll all be going around the city for the Celestial Festival. After our dance lessons, of course.”

“I see,” Ayden replied. “Are you learning the Charlie Stone? All of the young people are doing it these days.”

“Charleston,” Lucien corrected.

“Yes, that’s what I said.”

Ayden pecked both of his children on their cheeks, an act that was happily accepted by Esme and begrudgingly permitted by Lucien. “Remember to wear sunblock and sunshade if you’re going to be outside. Stay safe; love you; don’t bring dishonor to the family name. Have fun, you two.”

Another thing Quill had learned about Ayden – he could be surprisingly affectionate. Quill hoped that the twins appreciated their father’s gregariousness. He tried to imagine Theron acting in a similar manner, but dismissed the bizarre image.

Esme dragged her brother out to meet Elisabeth. They were met by a gaggle of their agemates. Quill glanced up from the noble children as he heard a distinctive tapping. Reyna and Hyperion had joined them, each wearing their respective smile and scowl. Quill resisted frowning as they chatted breezily with Ayden and Arion. Hyperion was to travel with them, but Reyna would be staying behind with Lady Livingstone.

Quill wasn’t sure how he felt about the Inner Circle sometimes. Lyra had settled into court with minimal trouble, but Quill was still glad to have had previous experience with her in Stonerose. He’d warmed up to Ayden, Arion, and even Fiona, but oft times he played the outsider. Quill couldn’t help but feel that it should be Potentate Selene at the other head of the war table, not him.

The fewer things said about Hyperion, the better. Then, there was Reyna.

Quill was tempted to trust the spymaster of the realm. She was more personable than her older brother, yet Quill remembered Isabelle including her on the short list of people to be wary of. He certainly was each time he saw Reyna and Ayden interact in an informal setting. It often left him … self-conscious.

Reyna walked them to the gates, remaining within the palace. Ayden perked up instantaneously when he laid eyes on a deep red automobile. Arion whistled at its glistening coat of paint, prompting a satisfied beam from Ayden. Their group would still be journeying with the royal entourage, but Ayden had elected to drive himself.

“I saw it in a magazine and felt compelled to purchase it,” Ayden explained, running his fingers along the vehicle’s sleek design. “Today is as good a day as any for a big debut.”

Ayden held the passenger door open, cocking his head at Quill. The leather seats were firm against his back as he made himself comfortable. Ayden sat into the driver’s side, slipping a pair of dark shades over his eyes. He rested an arm against the back of Quill’s seat, putting the vehicle in reverse and backing out of the line. Quill watched Ayden’s other hand as he steered the wheel using the flat of his palm, fascinated by the way he moved.

Quill looked about as they drove beyond the palace grounds. The Iron Wall shrunk as Ayden soared down the roads. Rising buildings gave way to trees that were changing with the new season. He had spent nearly half a year confined to the Ironhill since his arrival, Quill realized. How his life had changed in those months. He glanced at Ayden from the corner of his eyes.

 _I can’t say I’ve enjoyed every change,_ Quill thought with a small smile, _but perhaps this one might be for the better_.

\---  
_Lesser Ironhill_  
\---

Lesser Ironhill was south of its namesake, ensconced in one of Ancient’s lush cypress forests. Though it still boasted high-rising structures, its architecture was neoclassical as opposed to its urban cousin. The buildings were not as tall and this city was not as large and densely packed. It was like the Ironhill, but less.

Quill was still glad for the change of scenery. Ayden had chosen to attend the festival in a district outside of the metropolitan area. It was smaller and quieter, surrounded by the cypresses. If Quill closed his eyes, he could pretend that it was Lunares.

The trees were decorated with streamers, banners, and fabrics as Eurydice welcomed the first festival of an Era. Lively music played, and people cheered and shouted at whatever activity held their focus. Though the festivities were meant as a celebration of Sovereign Celeste’s coronation, Quill was certain that people used this day as an excuse to party. He didn’t mind.

Quill and Ayden smiled pleasantly at their subjects as they passed. Many of them seemed surprised to see the royal couple strolling through the village. Quill watched a group of vampire children playing, reminded of his youth. He telephoned his family when he could – specula had yet to really catch on in the Annex – but he missed them all the same.

Beside him, Ayden had pushed up his sunglasses and was helping himself to a pretzel. Quill grew curious when he noticed that it lacked the distinctive red tinge of sanguinem or synthetic blood. It wasn’t the first time that he’d seen his husband eat food that was useless to his body.

“Why do you eat?” Quill asked.

“To stay alive,” Ayden responded. “Unfortunately.”

“I’ve seen you eat traditional food. I thought vampires couldn’t process it.”

Ayden shrugged, taking another bite of the pretzel. “We can’t. I just like the taste.”

Arion approached them, face painted like a butterfly and a tube of bright pink fairy floss clutched in his hands. He looked thrilled at his sweet purchase, popping chunks of the candy into his mouth. Hyperion followed behind him with fiery face paint, deeply unamused. He and Quill exchanged polite smiles.

“It feels so good to no longer be at war,” Arion joked. “Now I can drive a vehicle without contemplating running it off the nearest cliff.”

“Please,” Ayden said. “We still have to deal with the kingdom post-war. Want to abdicate with me? I hear Sol is a warm continent. Nice and tropical.”

“You’d burn in all of that sun. No, we should abdicate to Boreas. We can start a little family there. I want one of those fluffy dogs that sit on your lap.”

“Trying to steal my husband, Lord Suzerain?” Quill said. “I only just got him.”

The three of them laughed good-naturedly, though Hyperion continued to look put upon by all of the happiness around him. Quill had no doubt that Arion both forced him to drive south and get his face painted. Lycan and Tydus stood at an awkward stalemate as Ayden and Arion discussed Lucien’s latest mishaps with a kitchenhand named Mia. The prince was inept at the fine art of romance, it seemed.

Hyperion wandered over to an outdoor shooting range, and their group migrated with him. An attendant offered them several air rifles to choose from. Hyperion selected one after much deliberation. Quill wasn’t really sure the difference between them. They all resembled each other. He could understand Hyperion’s apparent preference for ranged weapons – archery was his own choice, after all – but firearms had never been his favourite.

“How good of a shot are you, Your Majesty?” Hyperion asked.

“Good enough,” Ayden answered.

“Care to demonstrate?”

Ayden took another air rifle from the vendor. He got in position, aiming at the target that stood several yards away from them. The Sovereign paused for a few heartbeats as they protected their ears, before pulling the trigger five times. After the smoke had cleared, Quill noted that he’d mostly hit the outer rings of the target. Hyperion stepped forward next, shooting five times at his own target. He’d done much better than Ayden. The center of the target held five neat little holes. Hyperion’s face broke out into a superior smirk.

“Perhaps a swordfight is in order,” Ayden said, losing graciously. “To restore my honour.” He playfully unsheathed Eclipse.

“Perhaps not,” Hyperion declined.

Ayden shrugged and handed the rifle over to Arion. The elf waved it away, sending a powerful but concentrated gust of wind towards the targets. He smiled sheepishly as they blew away and crashed into a cabbage caravan, garnering an aggrieved shriek from the merchant. Arion went towards the spilled vegetables, hanging his head as the old man chewed him out for his wanton air magic. Hyperion remained by the rifles, but Quill beseeched Ayden to explore the rest of the festival. Each region, city, town, village had its own take on the day. Quill was eager to see how Ancient celebrated.

An uproar from the other side of the festival grounds drew Quill’s attention. Several onlookers had gathered across the erected seats, cheering as two people were locked in combat. Quill’s eyes widened in curiosity. Aside from the fight against the werewolf raiders along Tyrant’s March, he’d never seen a magical battle before.

“Why are they duelling?” Quill asked the nearest attendant.

They bowed respectfully before answering. “It’s tradition,” they said. “Our village started hosting a mock tourney every festival since the Gray Era. Another match is starting soon, Your Majesties, if you’d like to watch.”

 _I am Your Grace_ , Quill corrected to himself. It mattered little, in any case - he was scarcely a stickler for titles.

Quill and Ayden were given seats of honour at the commencement of the match. At the presence of the two monarchs, the crowd demanded that their favourite participant fight. He was a young man, perhaps a few years older than Quill. Short blond hair curled across a handsome but haughty face. His armour was plated in gold ostentatious enough to rival a Caedis.

“Apollo the Gallant,” Quill said after learning the man’s name. His face felt warm as Apollo put on a flashy display of alchemy. “He’s quite skilled at magic, isn’t he?”

“I suppose. If you’re into that,” Ayden replied. Red eyes narrowed as Apollo strutted towards them.

“May I have your favour?” Apollo asked, bowing deeply.

“Mine?” Ayden looked confused.

“Ah, pardon me, my Sovereign. I had intended this request for our Potentate. A little something to warm my blood before my match.”

” _Our_ Potentate?”

Quill rose from his seat, stopping near the boundary of the arena. “Of course, Apollo the Gallant,” Quill smiled. He wasn’t used to being chosen over Ayden. “What would you like?”

“A kiss.”

Apollo took Quill’s hands, raising them to his plump lips. He kissed them softly, blue eyes never leaving gold. Quill’s hands tingled where the mage’s lips brushed. Behind him, Quill did not notice the dark look on Ayden’s face.

“Marvellous,” Apollo breathed. “Your blessing shall give me the strength that I need.”

Quill returned to his seat, smiling innocently at Ayden. Apollo pulled away, waving as the crowd cheered. His opponent, a bright-haired fire-elf named Mattias, took his spot. Mage and elf were soon locked in combat. Apollo expertly spun a long staff around, the conduit glowing fiercely. Mattias sent wave after wave of orange flames at him, but Apollo countered them with alchemy. A particularly large glob of fire was quenched by what Quill assumed was a water-based rune. Mattias switched to earth magic, but his momentary distraction was all Apollo needed to knock him out of bounds.

The onlookers cheered as Mattias conceded defeat. Quill clapped too, amazed by both styles of magic. Other matches occurred in the bracket, but Apollo’s victories always garnered the most applause. The mage remained undefeated, flipping his blond curls with each fallen opponent. He sent Quill more than a few smouldering smiles.

“Can someone please beat him?” Ayden murmured.

At last, the two remaining victors faced each other – Apollo, and another mage named Adrienne. Her runes were tattooed onto her skin, giving her more freedom of movement than Apollo had with his conduit. The two alchemists clashed against each other. Adrienne sent a shock of lightning towards Apollo, but he redirected them through the staff and dissipated the sparks into the soil. Quill gasped as Apollo slammed his staff against the ground, unleashing a small seismic wave that sent Adrienne flying across the arena.

The win went to Apollo. Spectators exploded as their champion claimed his final victory, Quill included. His hands felt light as he clapped. Apollo raised an arm after several minutes, quieting the loud applause.

“I would like to present my gift,” he said, procuring a brilliant green necklace. “This emerald is from far-off Sol, and shall be bestowed upon the loveliest person I see.” Apollo made a dramatic show of studying every person, before his eyes landed on Quill. “The one who graced me with his favour.”

Quill rushed forward at the spike in Ayden’s sourness. He met Apollo at the boundary, unable to fight back a bright flush.

“May I, Your Grace?” Apollo asked, holding the silver straps of the necklace.

“You may.”

Apollo draped the emerald across his collarbones gently. He ran a finger along the straps, tightening the clasp.

“Beautiful,” Apollo whispered, only for Quill’s ears. “Now, your eyes shine brighter than the sun.”

Quill touched the necklace, beaming. “You have my thanks, Sir Apollo.”

“Yes, yes,” Ayden materialized beside Quill, snaking an arm around his hips. “Valiant fighting. Truly.”

Apollo bowed again, looking satisfied. Blue eyes drifted to the emerald as Quill adjusted it, before turning around and making to leave the arena. His retreat from them was stopped by his mob of adoring fans. He laughed breezily as they requested autographs from him.

 _He must be famous in Ancient,_ Quill thought, steering Ayden towards what looked like an archery range, _though I’ve never heard of him._ They left Apollo behind with his gaggle of admirers. Quill fiddled with the necklace as they walked, smiling all the while.

“Perhaps we can watch the archers,” Quill said. “I could even sneak in and perform. Gods, I still can’t believe I left my quiver and arrows in Beowulf Tower.”

“Uh huh,” Ayden sulked.

Quill grinned up at him. “Awww,” he cooed. “Are you afraid that I’ll be swept off my feet by Apollo the Gallant?”

“No.”

They stopped near the archers as they released their arrows. Quill hummed thoughtfully as several of them hit their mark. He played with the necklace as he contemplated asking Ayden for a new bow. Though, as the Potentate, Quill rationalized, he could likely place the order himself. The real issue would be in _leaving_ the Ironhill to find forested land. He snuck a glance at his glowering husband. It would be best to wait a few days before making such a request.

The necklace soon grew uncomfortable around his neck. Quill had never been an avid wearer of jewellery. He reached for the clasp, attempting to loosen it just a little. It was a pretty emerald, and he wanted it to be seen. Besides, it felt a bit rude to remove Apollo’s gift so soon after he’d received it.

Quill blinked as his efforts at loosening the necklace made it grow tighter. He tried again, but the necklace seemed to cling to his throat. His heartrate quickened as he struggled with the item. Quill eventually gave up, deciding to eschew propriety and do away with his necklace all together.

 _It’s not coming off,_ Quill realized.

He doubled his attempts, but his breath left him the more he tried. Breathing grew more and more difficult with each passing moment. Quill panicked and began scratching at his throat as he started to feel incredibly dizzy. The necklace was unbearably tight.

It felt like he was being strangled.

“A-Ayden,” Quill gasped. His voice was dangerously weak. “Ayden. Ayden!!”

“What?” Ayden said, eyes still trained on the archers. “Found someone else to swoon over?”

Pressure built up in Quill’s throat, and black spots were overtaking his vision. He Shifted, attacking the necklace with the last of his energy. His throat felt hoarse as his own sharpened claws tore at his flesh. Everything was starting to spin; pain from the necklace mingled with pain from clawing at himself.

“Help,” he whimpered. “C-can’t breathe…”

Ayden turned towards him, eyes widening at what he saw. Quill dug his claws deep into himself in an effort to remove the necklace. Ayden seized his hands, trying to pry them away from his neck.

“What the hell are you doing?!” Ayden hissed. He paled at Quill’s choked gasps. “Fuck, shit! Hold on, Quill. I NEED A HEALER!”

Violent spasms overtook Quill. He felt his consciousness slipping as the pressure in his throat reached new heights. People gathered at the commotion from the two of them, but Quill did not have the facilities to mind them.

The necklace pulsed against him as he thrashed. Quill’s knees gave out. The loud sounds around him suddenly ceased after a shrill ringing that only he seemed to hear. The last thing he saw as he went down was Ayden’s panicked face amidst a haze of green.


	26. Bloodlust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ayden faces the consequences of his actions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had two geckos named Bran (cause he was disabled) and Cersei (cause he was a bitch). I miss those little guys.  
> Anyway, we get to see Ayden be something other than calm, cool, and collected. Fight scenes are easy to imagine but hard to write.  
> CONTENT WARNING: VIOLENCE

Ayden Caedis  
Lesser Ironhill, 1 Cardinal

***

Ayden kept lists. He had one for nearly everything. Tasks he was to complete each day, each week, each month. Short-term goals and long-term goals. There was a list for ruling, and there was another list for parenting. 

He also had a list of regrets. It hurt each time he added to it. 

Not spending more time with his father. Pushing Selene to the point that she’d left. Leaving his children so soon after their mother. Dragging Arion through hell because he couldn’t cope with the consequences of his actions. Travelling to Lesser Ironhill. Letting Apollo get close. Failing to notice Quill’s distress. 

_Not taking Quill north. He wanted to go hunting in the forests._

A crowd had gathered after Ayden’s shouts. The royal guards were starting to swarm, blocking the public’s access to their monarchs. Healers rushed forth at his command, the glow of magic emanating from either hands or conduits. Ayden took several steps back, watching as they tried to stabilize Quill. The deep gashes along the werewolf’s neck and collarbones were horrific to behold. 

He was attacking himself, Ayden remembered. Quill had mentioned not being able to breathe. His desperate gasps had certainly corroborated that statement as he’d grasped at the emerald. _Does the necklace have something to do with this? Is this a magical problem?_

Ayden fought back mounting panic at the thought of combating whatever magic flowed through the emerald. Magic was beyond his realm of control. All of this power – seven regions, the largest country in the world – and Ayden could only watch the bright flashes of alchemy as the healers feverishly worked on Quill.

He ran his fingers over Eclipse’s hilt, briefly taken aback by the unfamiliar pommel. If there was one thing that Ayden had learned since taking the throne, it was how to channel negative emotions through a sword. A clear opponent was always easier than an abstract one. Red eyes quickly scanned the clearing, searching for golden hair and golden armour. He pinpointed his target within moments as he skulked away from the frantic onlookers. The mage stripped off his armour as he slunk off, lightening his load. 

Apollo.

Ayden’s pupils constricted to mere pinpoints. Everything seemed to melt away as he focused on the retreating man. Ayden drew Eclipse from its sheath, a tightly-controlled calm falling over him in a haze of red. He pushed his way forward, tracking Apollo’s direction and predicting where he would move next based on his trajectory. 

A vampire’s bloodlust was a powerful thing. Ayden had spent years honing his into a weapon sharper than any blade. 

He took off across the field at inhuman speeds. The mage turned around at the sound of his approach, blue eyes widening in shock at being discovered. Ayden was finally glad for the admirers that had accosted Apollo after the tourney. They had unwittingly delayed their victor’s escape from the village. 

Apollo raised his staff, and several vines erupted from the ground. Ayden sliced through them immediately, ignoring the thorns that cut small lines across his skin. He was running on pure adrenaline now – Ayden would use that for as long as possible. He dodged a tangle of thickets, narrowly avoiding entrapment in the dense plants. Apollo cursed at his dogged pursuit. He slammed his staff down, unleashing a larger seismic wave than the one he’d used in the competition. Without the rules of sportsmanship to bind him, Apollo’s magic was allowed free rein. 

Ayden grit his teeth as the earth shook. People had wisely began fleeing at the unchecked alchemy. Their shouts filled the village as everyone tried to get out of the way. Ayden spared a glance towards the spot he’d left Quill, awarding himself only a second of relief at the shimmering barrier that had formed around the healers. 

He turned back to Apollo in time to block a shard of ice as it flew towards him. More followed, and Ayden deflected or swerved them as much as he could. Dark blood dripped from just beneath his left eye as Ayden moved his head at the nick of time. 

“Let us see how that sword fares against this!” Apollo taunted. 

He waved his conduit vigorously, an engraving glowing as he channelled his magic. Ayden had never had cause to learn runes. His eyes widened as flames burst forth from the tip of the staff. Apollo aimed it at Ayden, sending a plume of orange fire hurtling in his direction. 

It dawned on Ayden then that his experience fighting against mages was virtually non-existent. The world slowed down as the flames barrelled towards him. 

_Shit!_ Ayden thought. He let his instincts take over, diving to the left at a fast sprint. Apollo’s flames were unrelenting, creating a scorched path wherever the Sovereign ran. Prolonged speed had never been Ayden’s forte. He couldn’t keep this up forever. 

Strength was not his most valuable skill, either, but Ayden had few options. His back would soon be against the wall. A vampire’s body was stronger than a mage. Ayden knew that he could take Apollo in a physical fight. He just needed to _get closer_. 

A second stream of fire flashed before him, and Ayden barely managed to change his course. The heat at his back never ceased. Apollo was surrounding him.

Arion suddenly landed in front of Ayden, hair billowing in the wind. He clapped his hands together and brought them down fiercely, sending out air magic that parted the flames before they could combine. Arion brought his fists down on the blackened soil on the ground. Columns of earth rose up at the elemental’s command. He sent them flying towards Apollo with a near-reckless abandon. Arion spurred his earthly missiles on with wild but concentrated air magic. 

“I’ve got you,” Arion said between attacks.

Ayden stepped out from behind Arion as the mage struggled to counter the elemental magic. Elf and vampire nodded at each other in unison. They’d fought side-by-side for over a decade. Ayden would trust Arion with his life. 

“Cover me,” Ayden said, rushing towards Apollo. 

The ground shifted beneath him as Arion raised a jagged wall that wrapped around Apollo’s area. Ayden gripped Eclipse tightly, using Arion’s distraction to his advantage. He treated the lower sections of the rock wall as stepping stones, avoiding any errant strains of magic. 

Apollo noticed his proximity at the last second. He lifted his conduit, and a hazy cloud formed around him. Ayden felt rather than heard the faint crackle of electricity. He leaped down from his perch, straight through the burgeoning charge. It was foolish to pass through a magical field, but Ayden could not care less. 

The conduit was raised in defence, lightning emanating from another rune. Ayden threw caution to the wind. He swung Eclipse harshly, feeling a deep sense of satisfaction as the staff fractured into two. Apollo stumbled at the loss of his weapon, bleeding from Ayden’s assault. 

For a moment, all Ayden saw was the blood. He wanted to see _more_. 

Apollo lifted one half of the severed staff, attempting to direct magic through it. Multiple runes flickered at the broken connection. Ayden dropped Eclipse and seized the conduit, ignoring the immense heat. He slammed Apollo’s back against Arion’s wall, bending the mage’s arm at a painful angle. They each still had a hand on the smoking conduit. 

“Go on,” Ayden said darkly, “use it.” 

Apollo spat out blood, glaring defiantly. “With pleasure.” 

Ayden opened his mouth, jaw slipping down and revealing wickedly sharp fangs. He went for Apollo’s soft neck with a loud hiss. The mage released the conduit in a heartbeat, going slack from fear. Ayden debated advancing despite the apparent surrender, but he was stopped by a blast of air magic. 

“Ayden!” Arion yelled. “No!” 

Ayden stopped just short of the exposed neck, breathing heavily. Arion moved beside him, performing a series of aggressive motions. The earth responded roughly. Apollo’s hands and legs were bound to the wall. The mage fought against the restraints, but he was useless without a conduit. 

Ayden did not like being told ‘no’, but he’d grown to appreciate it. The knowledge that people could speak their minds around him had always been a comfort. Today, however, that simple word brought rage.

“He tried to kill Quill!” Ayden argued. “Tell me why I shouldn’t bleed him out right now.” 

“We need him alive,” Arion countered. 

Ayden exhaled, reining in his bloodlust. He’d been in a similar state of mind during the entire Liberation of Homestead. The difference now was that the source of his rage and anguish was tangible. He was angry that Arion had stopped him, but Ayden knew that he would be relieved once his adrenaline crashed. It was just difficult when Apollo was right in front of him. 

Hyperion appeared then, hair dishevelled from the sudden battle. He brought a small number of the royal guards with him. Ayden glanced around the clearing, sighing when he saw many of the others still protecting Quill and the healers. The werewolf wasn’t moving. Ayden’s heart clenched. 

_I should’ve kept Selene in the palace,_ Ayden fretted. _I should’ve kept Quill in the palace. I should’ve ... I should’ve ..._

What should he have done? 

_I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know wh-_

“Ayden,” Arion said softly. “Look at me.” 

The bloodlust was waning. Ayden knew what would come after it was gone. He … he couldn’t afford to lose it. He needed a distraction. 

“I’m fine,” he said. “I’m fine!” 

Ayden closed his eyes and rubbed his temples, plotting the best course of action. Apollo’s quiet struggles were drawing his attention in an unfortunate way. Gods, he was _right there._ It would be so easy to just-

“What the fuck just happened?” Hyperion asked, abandoning titles and honorifics. 

“Assassination attempt,” Ayden replied. Hyperion’s eyes widened, but narrowed at Ayden’s next words. “It was meant for Quill. Something to do with a necklace.” 

“A necklace?”

Ayden balled his fists. “A tourney gift from _this_ man.” He looked at Apollo, a thought coming to mind. “Find the organizers of the bracket. I want you to talk to everyone involved in the tourney. As far as I’m concerned, they all threw their matches so that Apollo could win.” 

Hyperion nodded. He turned to the guards authoritatively. “Secure the perimeter. No one leaves, no one comes in. I want this village on lockdown.” 

Ayden made his way towards Quill, Arion walking beside him. The healers were still gathered around the Potentate. They would swap positions occasionally, though Ayden had no clue as to what they were doing. A flash of paranoia hit him with each glow of magic. He pushed it down fiercely. Right now, they were Quill’s best hope of survival. 

_Is Eurydice really about to lose another Potentate?_ Ayden wondered bleakly. _My mother, Selene, and now Quill. Fuck, why can’t Potentates just stay alive?!_

“How is he?” Arion asked a healer as they paused in their ministrations. 

She stood up, shaking out her balled-up sleeves. “Not great,” she responded honestly. “Something was inhibiting his breathing. We’ve been using magic to compensate, and healing any wounds that we can. His scratches are,” a pause, “challenging.” 

“The necklace,” Ayden supplied. “I think it’s enchanted. He was trying to take it off.” 

The healer hesitated before nodding. She made to remove it, but Ayden stopped her swiftly. The emerald glowed an ominous green that was in sharp contrast to the green of the healing magic. 

“Don’t,” he said warily. She gave him a questioning look. “Leave it.” 

Ayden had been out longer than he’d anticipated. His sunblock was wearing off from the fight with Apollo. Sunshade could only do so much to protect him, what with how singed his clothing had gotten. The gentle spring sun would do damage with enough exposure. Even now, Ayden felt the tell-tale signs of sunburn on his skin. He flexed palms that were reddened from clasping Apollo’s destabilized conduit.

 _Quill can’t stay out here,_ Ayden thought. His own wounds were the least of his problems. 

“Find a vehicle,” he said to Arion. “Preferably a large one. We’re taking Quill back to the Ironhill. These healers are coming with us.” 

“Perhaps the Asclepius would be better,” the healer said quietly. “It is where all of the best healers are trained. We are just humble village doctors.” 

Arion frowned. “The Asclepius is all the way down in Courtmere. Can you last long enough for that?” A grimace marred his face. “Alchemy or elemental, magic exhaustion is not pleasant. I’ve suffered from it before.” 

“As have I,” the healer said. “Be that as it may. The practitioners there would be more skilled. Magical experts from the Arcane Institute could even be called in.” 

Ayden stared down at Quill, a tangled web of emotions flowing through him. His husband looked so small as he lay supine. The shallow rise and fall of his chest were the only indications that he was still alive. Even then, he was breathing through the help of external forces. Ayden tensed at the thought of what would happen if the healers relented for even a minute. 

Memories of the past resurfaced as he faced the possibility of another Potentate dying because of him. His last days with his wife had seen him caught between an unstoppable force and an immovable object. Ayden could have honoured Selene’s proposal, but he’d feared that they would both perish in the hostile Annex. If he’d made good on his threat to lock her in the Palace, she would have hated him. She was not one to be kept contained. 

Ayden had thought Quill would be easier. He’d taken so many steps to ensure that nothing went wrong. Lesser Ironhill was meant to be a compromise. It was far away enough that Quill would not feel stifled by the capital, but close enough to ease Ayden’s worries. He’d even gone with him to the Celestial Festival. 

None of that had mattered. Was this a battle he was destined to lose? 

“We’ll go to the Palace,” Ayden repeated hollowly. “It is closer, and the royal healers are well-trained. They can handle this.” _They have to. The realm will burn if they don’t._

Arion nodded. He left with a small retinue of guards. A pickup truck, abandoned in the chaos, was soon commandeered. Alchemists floated Quill into the bed of the vehicle, the healers following close behind. Ayden paled at the way the werewolf’s hands hung limply. His claws were still sharpened, dried blood encasing the dark protrusions. 

Perhaps it was for the best that Ayden had never seen Selene’s body. 

Ayden gazed around him at the people that still remained. How many had seen their Sovereign threatening to rip a man’s throat out? How many of them had witnessed Quill clawing at his own throat before collapsing? Ayden had no idea as to who had fled the scene before Hyperion began securing the village. News of this would spread across the kingdom like wildfire. 

He needed to get back to the Palace. He needed Reyna. 

\---  
_The Ironhill_  
\---

Hyperion remained in Lesser Ironhill while Ayden, Arion, and the others returned to the capital. The festive mood in the air grated on Ayden’s frayed nerves. A great commotion immediately befell the Palace as the servants and courtiers caught a glimpse of their Potentate. Orders were shouted by chamberlains; servants rushed to obey them. 

Ayden had Quill and his healers sent up to the Potentate’s wing, unsure of where else to put him. The royal family’s own medical staff soon followed, eyes grim. Hubert Tucker, the head physician, quickly began issuing instructions to the others. He incorporated the village healers seamlessly, welcoming as many hands as he could get. 

Several people were stationed outside of Quill’s wing. The large one – Cerberus? – led the vanguard. Ayden sent some of the guards after his children. From Esme’s earlier account, they’d likely still be traversing the city. If the gods were kind, the twins would have stopped at one of their friends’ manors. Ayden wanted them safe in the Palace as soon as possible. For now, all he could do was wait. 

Ayden did not know much about healing, especially when magic was involved. He paced along the corridors, watching the brilliant flashes of light that would peek through the cracks in the doors. Lady Fiona had delayed her journey to Briar upon their arrival. She stood by Ayden now, thin lips pressed tightly together. Arion leaned against a wall, looking haggard. 

“You should see one of the healers,” Ayden mumbled to him. “When was the last time you used that much magic?” 

Arion shrugged. “It’s not the worst I’ve felt.” Guilt crept through Ayden at that admission. He’d seen Arion at his worst, and blamed himself for it a thousand times over. “Besides, you look like you need more attention than me.” 

“I’ll be fine.” 

“Why didn’t you take Quill to the Asclepius?” Fiona asked. “Tucker’s medical reports are not promising.”

“Too far,” Ayden replied. He changed his course, pacing from left to right instead of right to left. There was no logical difference between the two paths, but it made him feel better. “Too many witnesses.” 

The click of heels prompted him to stop, and Ayden glanced up as Reyna walked towards them. She was accompanied by a stone-faced Lady Livingstone. Both women hid their apprehension behind expertly-crafted masks. 

“What happened?” Lyra said stiffly. 

Ayden rattled off a shortened series of the events for what felt like the millionth time that day. Reyna sucked in a breath, running a hand through her black tresses. Lyra placed her own hands on her hips, staring at the ceilings. She pinched the bridge of her nose. 

“Lord Lycan is not going to like this,” Lyra muttered. 

Ayden halted. He raked fingers through his hair as he considered the ramifications of the assassination attempt against Quill. He turned to Reyna sharply. 

“Theron Lycan isn’t going to hear about this,” Ayden said. “Not until Quill stops breathing. Permanently.” 

Reyna nodded. The assembled Inner Circle remained in tense silence as healers moved in and out of the Potentate’s wing. Ayden was feeling so useless. He didn’t know what to do. 

Ayden hated not knowing. He hadn’t known what to do when his father died; hadn’t known what to do when Selene followed years later. He didn’t know if Quill would live or die. Gods, he hated not _knowing_. Fingers ran along Eclipse, wrapping around the head of the serpent. 

“Where is Hyperion?” Reyna asked. 

“Lesser Ironhill,” Arion answered. “He’s holding down the festival grounds. The man – Apollo, if I remember correctly – may not have been working alone.” 

Reyna hummed. “I can find out if he isn’t.” 

Lyra pursed her lips. “How?” 

“Directly from the source.” 

“Make sure word of this does not get out to anyone,” Ayden said. “You’re Master of Intelligence. Use the networks and channels that you operate through. The last thing we need right now is a kingdom-wide uproar.” _Or for Theron Lycan to call his banners._

Another healer exited the wing, eyes dark. They muttered a polite ‘excuse me’, swerving around the Inner Circle. Ayden watched them as they trudged along the corridor. He felt his fear spiking at the absence of positive confirmations from the practitioners. 

“Pardon me, Your Majesty,” Lyra said. 

She took off before Ayden could fully grant her permission to leave. That mattered little to him, in any case. He was too busy considering all of the potential reactions from the realm. 

There was the political fear for the alliance and the reunification of Eurydice. If Quill died, the Annex would rebel once more. The very foundations of the peace relied on Quill’s continued existence. Should their marriage end, Theron Lycan would have no reason to obey the crown other than because it was expected of him.

Ayden cursed under his breath. The westernmost region was not one to do what was expected of it. The last Era had been clear testament to that. 

_What are Apollo’s motives?_ Ayden wondered. 

The knowledge that someone wanted Quill dead was unsettling. Ayden could understand being a target himself. He’d even concede to the target being anyone else on the Inner Circle. They all had blood on their hands to some capacity. Just … not Quill. He was practically a saint compared to them. But, Ayden supposed, saints did not belong in the Ironhill. 

There was another fear, however. Something quieter. Ayden didn’t want Quill to die. He never got to take him north, to where the forests were.


	27. Horizon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing is set in stone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took so long. I honestly didn’t wanna write it lol. I’m, like, _so_ done with magic. Alas, I want my character's solutions to problems to be logical, even if magic is involved. That being said, I really can’t wait to get back to the political machinations that are the heart of AWAS.

Lyra Livingstone  
The Ironhill, 1 Cardinal

***

Lyra’s heels echoed rapidly along the corridor. She walked swiftly, green eyes trained forward. 

The Celestial Festival had started out much like its predecessors. Stonerose was always exuberant about the popular spring day, though Lyra admitted that the Ironhill celebrations outmatched Coven’s capital city. She never thought that _Lesser Ironhill_ of all places would end up overshadowing both of them. 

Festivities aside, the day had followed a similar structure to others during Lyra’s time in the aggravating city. Restoring her office had been Lyra’s chief concern. Reyna had been filling several of the gaps left by her previously vacant position. Societal movements, region reports, development, infrastructure. It was tedious work. 

Lyra would take the tedium over the untimely death of a third Potentate in as many Eras. 

The fate of Eurydice would rest in Theron Lycan’s hands if his son did not survive. The best-case scenario upon the Potentate’s death would be the kingdom uniting against the mage and any of his accomplices. The worst-case scenario… 

Lyra wondered if another war was brewing over the horizon. 

“You there,” she called to the healer that had retreated from the royal quarters, “how fares Potentate Quill?” 

They stopped, turning around hastily at her sharp tone. From this distance, Lyra could make out short black hair surrounding an androgynous face. Lyra took in the healer’s attire. A long white coat, rumpled from running up and down the palace. Sleeves and gloves lined with the remains of various ointments and poultices. Large, terrified brown eyes. Closer inspection showed their vampiric race. 

“I-I’m not sure, my lady,” they stammered. “I’m just a medic in training. Doctor Tucker sent me to the infirmary to gather more supplies. He’ll be expecting me back as soon as I am able.” 

Lyra fell in step with them. “I’m going with you.” 

The vampire medic led her towards the infirmary with little protest. It bustled with activity as the resident healers raced about. Thus far, the doctors and high-ranking chamberlains seemed to be the only palace attendants that were aware of the delicate state of their Potentate. Lyra exhaled. With all of the uproarious clamour, it would not be long before word of this slipped out to some chatty servant or other. Reyna certainly had her work cut out for her. 

Lyra surveyed the room, taking note of the various medical accoutrements. The medical staff boasted both mages and elves capable of healing water-magic, as well as people belonging to the non-magical races. Most of them were hurriedly collecting materials to be transported to the royal wings. 

She exhaled, eyes landing on a woman that was giving orders to the others. Lyra approached her, assuming that she was in charge in the absence of Doctor Tucker. The magi woman – Lyra saw the small staff she held – glanced up at her. Whichever commands she meant to utter died once she recognized the Master of Society. 

“I’m sure there’s a rune kit somewhere in the palace,” Lyra said, not wasting time. “Are you aware of where I can find one?” 

The woman nodded. “Yes, my lady,” she responded. “The medical unit keeps a few on hand.” 

“Deliver one to the Potentate’s wing. It will be needed.” 

With that, Lyra turned and stalked away. She climbed the steps to the upper levels, cursing the Redfyre Palace for being larger than Living Stone. The remaining members of the Inner Circle were still gathered at the door, faces varying between fear and anger. Lyra glanced around, but she could locate neither Reyna nor the erratic Sovereign. She did not blame Ayden for his prior incessant pacing. The loss of one’s spouse was not an enjoyable event, particularly when the conditions of your marriage were unorthodox. 

Doctor Tucker exited the makeshift medical ward, exchanging words with Arion before taking his leave. He walked in Lyra direction, but she stopped him with a quick wave. As the head physician, he would likely have the greatest control over the happenings in the royal chamber. 

“Tell the guards to grant me access to Potentate Quill’s quarters,” Lyra demanded. 

Tucker frowned at her, moustache twitching. “May I ask why, Lady Livingstone?” 

“I will be of assistance.” 

“Forgive me, my lady, but I do not see how you could help us in any way. I don’t remember you being medically trained.” 

Lyra crossed her arms, narrowing her eyes. “I possess specialized ‘healing’ runes. Aside from them, I’ve instructed the medics to bring a rune kit to the upper level. I know how to carve them.” 

Tucker shook his head. “Healing runes and medical training are not the same. The Potentate’s affliction is beyond the ordinary mage.” 

“ _I_ am not an ordinary mage.” Lyra rested hands on her hips haughtily. “My bloodline produces some of the most powerful alchemists in Eurydice. Right now, you need all of the strength you can get.” 

They stood in a tense silence for several heartbeats. Lyra glared at Tucker, willing him to yield to her demands. It was a well-known fact that Livingstones were skilled at magic. Lyra held several runes in her arsenal. She could bolster their effects with her naturally elevated magical reserves. Even if she lacked a specific rune, the kit from the infirmary would be serve as a quick remedy. 

“What is going on here?” Lady Fiona asked, ambling over to them. “I wasn’t aware that Doctor Tucker had the luxury of standing about.” 

Lyra turned to the aged elf, frowning. “I can assist the healers. The doctor is not so inclined.” 

“You have no training,” Tucker protested. “As far as I know, you haven’t studied medical magic at the Arcane, the Asclepius, or even Bluerose. I do not see why I should allow a civilian to operate on a case as delicate as this.” 

Fiona’s brown eyes darted thoughtfully between the two mages. Lyra resisted hissing as she felt another pulse of magic from the Potentate’s wing. All of the erratic alchemy in the air was beyond irritating. The non-mages around her were lucky that they could not feel the latent energy. 

“What happens if we let her in?” Arion inquired, sounding tired.

“Lord Suzerain,” Tucker said, “I am not certain that I would advise that. I do not doubt that Lady Livingstone’s magic is as advanced as she claims. Be that as it may. Sheer strength is not a substitute for skill.”

Arion turned his gaze on Lyra. “Are you skilled enough?”

“Yes,” Lyra bristled. “With all due respect, Lord Suzerain, we simply do not have the time for arguments. Nothing the healers have tried is working.” 

“We’ve only just started,” Tucker argued. “He arrived in the Palace not long ago.”

“And since then, you’ve rotated between gods know how many healers. We will run out of medics eventually.” Lyra sighed “I can stand aside while Quill inches closer to death. _Or_ , you could grant me access to his quarters.” 

Arion ran a hand through his fluffy hair. 

“So, it is either you do nothing and he … gets worse,” he drawled, “or you do something, and he maybe gets better.” A frustrated exhale. “I do not like those odds, but I will not impede the potential for improvement.”

“My lord,” Tucker said, narrowing his eyes at Lyra. “She is not qualified.” 

Arion held his stare. Lyra pursed her lips as the two men engaged in a wordless battle. In the absence of both Quill and Ayden – wherever he had gone – Arion was the highest ranked person around. However, Tucker could claim seniority with regards to the medical nature of their problem. Lyra waited for them to come to a decision. 

“Let her in,” Arion said. 

Tucker grimaced but relented. Lyra allowed a small smirk to grace her face, but it fell soon enough at Tucker’s next words. 

“I will stay and supervise you.” 

The doctor returned to the royal chambers, boots clicking against the floors. Lyra followed him, ignoring the trepidation that was mounting in her veins.

“I hope you know what you are doing,” Fiona mumbled. 

Lyra sniffed, walking past the elves. She kept her head high as she swept her blonde waves behind her back. The guards stepped aside for her, and she strolled in with her green eyes trained forward.

***

Lyra took in her surroundings quickly. She’d never been to the upper levels of the Redfyre Palace – they were reserved for the royal family – and she needed to ground herself if she was to be of any use. Quill rested on a large bed, surrounded by his retinue. The vampire medic from earlier scurried into the room, arms laden with the rune kit that Lyra requested. They rested it on a surface near her, bowing shallowly. 

A handful of mages pumped alchemy through the werewolf’s unconscious body. Water-elves used their own healing magic on the angry wounds along his neck and collarbone. Others – commonfolk and vampires, mostly – filled in the gaps where magic failed by bandaging secondary injuries. 

Lyra noticed that they all seemed to work around a dull green necklace. Side-stepping around it added more tedium to an already difficult task. She wondered why they didn’t just remove it entirely. Her voiced thoughts drew the attention of a woman that stood off to the side of the great bed.

“We can’t,” answered the healer that Lyra did not recognize. “The Sovereign said not to touch it. He suspects an enchantment of some kind.” 

Lyra tutted. _An assassination attempt using a magical item. That certainly complicates matters. What happened to the days of stabbing someone and being done with it?_

“What is your name?” Lyra asked the woman. 

“Jamie Kirkham. I am a healer based in Lesser Ironhill.” 

Lyra situated herself between the present healers. She breathed in deeply, readying her alchemy reserves. If she was going to be combating the necklace as well as healing Quill, then she would need to exercise as much control as possible. Tucker took a space across from her after trading words with Kirkham. 

“How have you been treating him thus far?” Lyra inquired. 

Kirkham swallowed. “He’s scarcely breathing himself. We have two or three healers standing in as proxy for his normal systems at any moment. Every few rounds, we switch between alchemy and elemental magic.” 

Lyra activated her specialized ‘healing’ rune, watching as her hands glowed a brilliant green. She hovered them over Quill, pushing her intent on him. Tucker watched her like a hawk. Lyra felt a flash of satisfaction course through her as one of the smaller gashes along Quill’s collarbones began sealing itself. Several raised marks along his upper body from the healing magic used prior to Lyra’s arrival revealed the extent to which he’d been injured. 

They kept pace like this. Lyra would flare her magic or desist from using it depending on the wounds. Non-magical healers would wipe up the dried blood as their magical counterparts worked. A red and purple network of harsh scars soon lay across Quill’s neck and shoulders. Repeat treatments would be needed to fully conceal them, but they were certainly the least of their problems. 

_That leaves the necklace,_ Lyra thought as she took a break. _If it is impeding his breathing, then it must be taken off as soon as we are able. Removing it by hand seems to be out of the question, but perhaps…_

Lyra powered her ‘dispel’ rune. It was of the general variety, but she was using it as more of a test than anything. The emerald did not react to her magic. She frowned and pressed harder, and was once again rewarded with little reaction. 

“What is your plan, my lady?” Tucker asked curtly. 

Lyra ignored him, flooding her rune with magic. Nothing. 

“What the hell is this?” Lyra snapped. “Dispel does not affect it at all.” 

Tucker looked at the necklace. He lifted a small staff inscribed with runes that Lyra did not recognize. One of them glowed as he channelled magic through it. He was about as successful as she had been. They exchanged a glance. 

_Time for a different strategy_.

Lyra bit her lip, directing a large portion of her reserves towards specialized ‘dispel’. She touched the cold necklace softly and attempted to counteract the alchemy that was coursing through it. 

The necklace lashed out immediately. 

Her eyes widened at the sudden kickback. Her magic intensified as the necklace wrestled with her to keep its purchase on Quill’s neck. Lyra grit her teeth, forcing to override it. If she needed to use brute force to get her way, she would gladly do so. 

Lyra felt invisible hands wrapping around her neck. She gasped in shock, unable to break her connection to the necklace. Spots danced across her vision as her breath left her lungs. Lyra’s alchemy spiked at her lapse of control. Many of her runes burned at its rippling effects. Quill’s body spasmed in time with her wild magic. 

Tucker responded swiftly. He seized her arms, attacking her magic rather than the necklace. Lyra fell backwards, coughing as the pressure around her throat relented. She breathed in large gulps of air, reining in her magic. 

“What just happened?” Kirkham gaped. 

Lyra shuddered as the rest of the unpleasant sensation washed over her. Loose strands of blonde hair fell across her face. She stared at her hands with narrowed eyes, unaccustomed to losing control of her own magic. 

“That _thing_ ,” Lyra hissed, “just nullified my alchemy. Further attempts to remove it only make it stronger.” _Where the hell did that mage get such an item?!_

Tucker’s forehead creased. He ran several fingers through his salt-and-pepper hair. Lyra glared fiercely at the emerald. Those invisible hands still ghosted across her neck. 

“What can we do, then?” Kirkham asked. “We can heal his wounds, but we can only keep his lungs going for so long. A few more days of such heavy exertion, and we will all start suffering from severe magic exhaustion.” 

“We can work with that,” Tucker said. “If we draw up a strict schedule, then…” 

Tucker’s voice faded as Lyra assessed the situation. The necklace was the source of their troubles, but it had become painfully clear that she couldn’t take it off without dire consequences. 

Lyra rubbed her temples. _I can’t attack the cause, so I must focus on the symptoms. Quill essentially needs someone to breathe for him, but we’ll run out of manpower eventually._

_What can augment our alchemy?_

She drummed her fingers against the wooden panels of the bed, running that question through her mind over and over again. Kirkham and Tucker’s words flowed through Lyra’s ears like. She watched a commonfolk medic dip a rag into a basin, calling for more warm water to be brought in. Lyra internally scoffed. 

_A ‘fire’ rune paired with ‘water’ would be more useful than trudging about with a basin._ Lyra blinked. _Fire… Augmented magic…_

Lyra rose abruptly. “A Philosopher’s Stone,” she said. 

“Pardon me?” Tucker stared owlishly.

“I need a Philosopher’s Stone.”

Kirkham directed worried eyes on Lyra. She fiddled with her rolled up sleeves as they came undone by her constant movements. 

“Do you know how to use one?” Kirkham fretted. “It will be useless for elemental magic, and my mages have not been instructed on their mechanism.” 

Lyra levelled her with a flat look. “My clan sits on the largest known Philosopher’s Stone mine in Orpheus. I’ve been around them since I was born.” 

“Is there even one in the Palace?” Tucker asked. He swapped positions with a weary elf, pushing oxygen in and out of Quill’s body. 

Lyra tapped her foot rapidly. She did not carry a personal Stone – she’d never needed one, and it was not something that one openly flaunted. Her clan sold pieces of it to various institutions and corporations, but that did not mean that it was a readily available item. There was no use in breaking apart a speculum to acquire its synthetic Philosopher’s Stone core. She would need something much stronger than a replica. Worse still, they did not have enough time for her to instruct Orion to send a new cut. 

A revelation hit her. 

“At the royal wedding,” Lyra remembered, “I gifted the Sovereign and his new Potentate with a Philosopher’s Stone. I highly doubt that either of them would have used it for anything other than appearances. Do you know where they would have kept it?” 

Tucker shook his head. “No,” he answered “but I can instruct someone to find it.” 

“Do so.” 

The command was issued, and one of the lesser medics scrambled to obey. Lyra flipped through the book of runes that came with the kit, pulling out pages that would be useful. She disregarded the grimaces of Tucker and Kirkham with each leaf she tore. 

“These are some of the runes I’ll need,” Lyra explained. She held out several sheets for them. “The two of you seem like the most skilled clowns in the circus. Take these runes and carve them here,” she pointed to various surfaces as she spoke, “here, here, and here. I will handle the rest.” 

“What is the meaning of this?” Tucker asked. 

Lyra glared at him. “I have a plan. Do as I say, and do not argue with me.” She inclined her head towards Quill’s supine form. “Unless you’d rather he remains an invalid for however long you’re able to keep him ‘alive’.” 

Kirkham grabbed her allocated sheets and moved to do as Lyra said. Tucker threw a final glare at her, before following suit. 

Lyra returned to her station at the side of the bed. Quill’s shirt had been cut away some time ago, giving healers easy access to his neck. It made it all the easier for Lyra. She took one of the rune pens from the kit, and began carving a rune onto the werewolf’s chest. The nearby healers watched her warily, but chose not to impede her. 

Tucker completed his runes before Kirkham. Once Lyra’s orders had been completed, he saved the pages that she had selected. A medic burst into the room soon after, clutching the small Philosopher’s Stone in their hands. Lyra floated it to herself before they got the chance to toddle over to her side. 

The Philosopher’s Stone blazed a bright red as it was settled atop Quill chest, just beneath the necklace. The emerald, for its part, flashed a deep green. Lyra hurriedly inspected Tucker and Kirkham’s runes, briefly smiling when she found no faults with them. The two other mages watched her closely. 

“The Stone amplifies the abilities of the user,” Lyra said after much thought, “but it is also capable of magic beyond even the greatest alchemist.” 

Kirkham bit her lip. “Are you going to try and remove the necklace again?” 

Lyra shook her head. “No, not after my first attempt. The odds of it backfiring and killing him are too high.” She huffed. “These healers are a substitute for Quill’s body. The Stone will be a substitute for the healers.” 

“How do you know all of this?” Tucker asked suspiciously. 

Lyra met his glare. “I told you. My clan is skilled at magic.” _Losing so many loved ones will make any person inquisitive about the nature of life and death._

Kirkham nodded. “What will you have us do?” 

Lyra inhaled deeply. Two of her runes – specialized ‘conversion’ and ‘healing’ – shined against her skin. She did not know if this combination would work, but she had few options. 

“All of the mages will heal him simultaneously,” Lyra said, “while I control the Stone. If this works, it should take over in place of the healers.” She glanced about the room. “The non-alchemists must remain on standby.” 

“And if this fails?” Tucker questioned. 

Lyra locked eyes with him. “It won’t.” She looked away before the lead physician could offer any more protests. “On the count of ten, channel as much magic as you can into your runes. Only stop when I say so.” 

With that, Lyra began the procedure. The mages moved into position, proceeding as they had been since Quill was returned to the Ironhill. Others stood aside as they worked. 

Lyra touched the Stone and passed her magic through it. She increased her power incrementally, feeling the ebb and throb of the item. It responded to her after a few seconds. Now came the difficult part – connecting the external alchemy to the Stone. ‘Conversion’ lit up the room as she forced her intent over it. The runes carved by Tucker and Kirkham matched its intensity. 

Shades of red overcame the chambers. Lyra basked in the familiar colour of the Philosopher’s Stone. There was resistance from the emerald, but Lyra made sure to keep the collectively amplified magic as far away from it as possible. She slowed her breathing, inhaling and exhaling purposefully. The red faded and brightened along with her. 

Lyra imagined the Stone supplanting their alchemy. It obeyed. 

A dance of red was her indication that the Stone was operating as it should. She waved for the other mages to slowly withdraw, keeping her own alchemy active. Directing her stream of magic into the Stone was the final step. 

Lyra held her focus a while longer. She waited with bated breath as she felt the pulse from the Stone. _Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale._

Quill’s chest rose and fell sharply. It did so again. And again. 

“By Echolyse,” Tucker gasped, “is it working?” 

She tentatively broke their connection, shuddering with relief when the werewolf did not immediately flatline. Lyra lifted the Stone, placing it on a table aside his bed. The physical disruption of its position did not produce any noticeable effects. 

“Of-course it is,” Lyra sniffed. “This should be enough to keep him going a while longer.” She felt a bout of hesitation. “Destroying the necklace is the best option, but it appears I currently lack that ability.” 

“You’ve done plenty, my lady,” Tucker said. 

Lyra rubbed her temples. The healers tiptoed about the Stone, watching it with fascination. Lyra absentmindedly wondered if she should start selling larger quantities to medical institutions. It was not as rare as people thought, but her ancestors had not amassed vast wealth by mindlessly giving Stones away. 

“Perhaps you should rest,” Kirkham said gently, “and replenish your strength.”

Lyra nodded. Her nerves felt raw. Gods, she hadn’t used magic like this in ages. She checked one last time to make sure that the Philosopher’s Stone was still working. The runes around them glimmered softly. Quill’s condition would need to be closely monitored within the coming days, but he seemed to be stable. She would leave that to the healers. 

She was not sure of how long the Philosopher’s Stone could continue counterbalancing the enchanted emerald. Their lifespans were not infinite, and she had likely already exhausted a portion of its reserves. Exhuming more from the Living Stone Rock would not be a swift task, but she would communicate with Orion if need be. 

Lyra frowned down at Quill’s neck. The emerald rested on him almost defiantly. 

There was one thing she was certain of, however.

That necklace was not powered by alchemy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyra: *uses Philospher's Stone to basically put Quill on magical life support*  
> Lyra: Hmmm, how do I profit from this?  
> A businesswoman through and through. My true neutral queen.


	28. Storyteller

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Talk is cheap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, a chapter with good old-fashioned political backstabbing. My comfort zone. Poor Quill causing all this ruckus ;)  
> Also, I'm high-key contemplating writing short Eurydice AUs. Perhaps a fun little project for when I run out of ways for pseudo-politicians to mess with each other.  
> CONTENT WARNING: TORTURE; explicit

Reyna Tydus  
The Ironhill, 1 Cardinal

***

“Why did you call us back?” Esme blinked deep blue eyes in confusion. “The fireworks haven’t even gone off yet.” 

Reyna’s eyes drifted towards Ayden. Uncertainty radiated off of him in waves. She sighed internally, recognizing the emotional distress that she hadn’t seen in years. She’d suggested Ayden leave the corridor leading up to the Potentate’s wing, aggravated by his nonstop pacing.

The prince and princess had recently been deposited in the palace by their minders. Reyna was glad for some measure of clarity in Ayden after the fiasco in Lesser Ironhill. If this Apollo could so brazenly target one royal, there was no stopping his cronies from attacking another. 

“I…” Ayden faltered. 

_Hesitating, avoiding eye contact, stalling._ Reyna flexed her fingers and donned her best smile. Reading people was quite easy if you knew their tells. _Deciding between an outright lie, or a lie by omission._

“Your father thought it best for you to return,” Reyna said. “We found the festivities a bit much this year.” 

Lucien glared at her. “They’re not that different from last year. We still had a few hours more before curfew.” 

Reyna’s smile remained, though her eyes grew sharper. The fact that Ayden was allowing her to continue speaking to his children in his stead meant that he’d chosen a lie by omission. This was familiar territory with him. Reyna could work with that. She leaned downwards ever so slightly, putting herself on a similar level to the prince. 

“Why don’t you go to your rooms?” An airy laugh. “I’m sure you can watch the fireworks from the windows. You have pet snakes, correct? Go play with them.” 

Reyna made to brush fingers through the prince’s curly hair - the way Esme had permitted countless times before - but he stepped away from her touch. 

“You’re not my mother,” Lucien hissed. “Don’t tell me what to do.” 

The princess looked between them uncomfortably, eyes widening at Lucien’s harsh words. Reyna retracted her hand, maintaining her pleasant expression. The Viper’s little rattlesnake puffed up at her in agitation. 

“Please,” Ayden said softly, “just return to your quarters. It will only be for a little while, I promise.” 

Esme glanced up at her father, brows furrowing at his tone. She took her brother by the hand and dragged him away from the older vampires. Lucien threw a few suspicious looks over his shoulder as he followed the princess. 

Reyna straightened from her stooped stance. She turned her gaze to Ayden once they were alone in the corridor, smile slipping from her face. 

“It’s risky to be making promises right now,” Reyna said. “You’ll have to tell them eventually.” 

“I know,” Ayden replied. “I just … I barely knew how to explain their mother.” 

Reyna resisted rolling her eyes. “I doubt the twins are nearly as attached to Quill as they were to her.” _A blood-stained bed. Vacant blue eyes. Locked doors; dark frowns; shushed whispers. So many whispers._ “Besides, they are older now. They’d understand if the worst were to happen.” 

Ayden grimaced at her words. He rested a hand against his hip and carded the fingers of the other through his hair - the very image of an exhausted man. 

“The worst can’t happen,” he whispered. “Not again.” A sharp inhale. “Gods, what will I tell his family if it does? I’m certain we’d win another Annexian conflict if it came to it, but-” 

Reyna hummed placidly. “Keeping secrets is my job, Ayden. What is one more?” She placed a hand on his shoulder. “The Annex shall not know until you decree it.” 

Several moments passed before Ayden gave her a weak nod. He uttered a small ‘thank you’, red eyes unfocused. Reyna made for the upper levels, listening to his footsteps as he padded after her. She noted the decreased commotion around them with apprehension. It was either a good sign, or a terrible one. 

Red light flashed at the edges of her vision. Ayden immediately sped up, overtaking her measured stride. They came across the Potentate’s corridor as another red pulse lit up the walls. To her surprise, Hyperion had already returned from the south. He stood beside one of the palace guards with an unreadable expression. Reyna paused beside Arion, giving him a questioning look. The Suzerain shrugged in response. 

“What is happening?” Ayden asked tersely. He narrowed his eyes at the sealed doors. “When I left, all I saw was green and white light. Now I see red. _What the hell does red mean?”_

“Lady Livingstone went in there,” Arion said. “She had an idea as to how to help Quill.” 

Ayden frowned. “She’s a healer?” 

“Not to my knowledge.” 

The frown deepened. “And Doctor Tucker gave her permission to enter? _I_ wasn’t even allowed in there!” 

Arion shifted slightly. “Actually,” he said, “I granted her access.” 

“On whose authority? If she’s not a healer, then she has absolutely no reason to be-” 

“Enough,” Fiona snapped. “You are both too grown to be arguing over this. Be that as it may. It has already happened.”

Ayden turned that red gaze to her. “It’s currently happening!” He flashed his fangs angrily. “I’m going in.” 

The doors opened as if reading his mind. A haggard Lyra Livingstone drifted from the Potentate’s wing, blonde hair in a seldom-seen state of disarray. Reyna snuck a peek into the room from where she stood, but she failed to see anything noteworthy. It looked more like another corridor than actual sleeping corridors. 

“What is the meaning of this?” Ayden inquired fiercely. “Why were you in there?” 

Lyra’s green eyes met him coolly. “I was healing your husband, Your Majesty.” 

“Were we so short-staffed that any mage in the palace would have sufficed?” 

Reyna locked eyes with Hyperion as she observed their tense interaction. Ayden’s distrust of Lyra and her region had been made quite clear during her time as Master of Intelligence. No doubt Coven’s support during the war would have brought the crown a much swifter victory. Their steadfast neutrality had been a constant thorn in Ayden’s side. 

Reyna crossed her arms thoughtfully. Fulfilling the duties of the Master of Society had drawn her attention to some _intriguing_ patterns in the southern region. She filed that information away for later, regarding the vampire and the mage. 

“I think it unwise for you to enter,” Lyra was saying. “I don’t know how the runes will react to non-mages. I scarcely knew how they would react to me. Your presence may serve as an unwelcome distraction.” 

Ayden’s force contorted in anger. “Are you going to stop me?” His hand migrated to the hilt of the golden sword. 

“If I have to.” Lyra’s eyes dropped down to the serpentine pommel. A rune glowed as she remained in place. 

Fiona stepped between them smoothly. Reyna felt a slight gust of wind as she moved. The elf’s warning was as subtle as an airy breeze. 

“Let us not make more work for the healers,” Fiona chided. “I am sure they are busy enough.” 

Ayden and Lyra kept eyes trained on each other. Neither dropped their aggressive stances. Hubert Tucker vacated the room in the midst of their stand-off. The physician gave the Inner Circle a weak smile, oblivious to their divide. 

“My lords and ladies,” Tucker said, “we finally have some good news. The Potentate is nearly stable.” 

All tension seemed to evaporate from Ayden’s shoulders at those words. He released his sword instantly, facing the doctor. His deep voice was rasping as he spoke. 

“Can … can I see him?” Ayden sounded lighter than a butterfly. He walked into the room at a nod from Tucker. The rest of the Inner Circle followed, the doctor discouraged from objecting by their purposeful strides. 

Lyra grimaced as they walked. “There is good news and there is bad news, Your Majesty. You’ve just heard the good news.” 

Reyna cocked her head in curiosity. “What is the bad news?” 

“There are two parts. The first is that Potentate Quill remains unconscious. I neither know nor have control over when he will wake.” 

Reyna took in the Potentate’s wing. There had indeed been a hallway within the royal chambers. Tucker had led them towards a bedroom. It was a finely-decorated space, though it lacked many personal affects. Reyna would have thought it an unusually luxurious spare bedroom if not for her knowledge of its occupant. 

Said occupant was laid out in the large bed of the room. A few medics flocked about, fiddling with various items. One was fluffing several pillows to prop up the unconscious werewolf. A nearby gem pulsed, its red light darkening and brightening at a regular pace. Reyna spared it an intrigued glance. Magic truly was strange. 

Ayden cut a path to Quill’s side in an instant. He took a clawed hand in his own, squeezing it gently. Reyna’s eyes roved over Quill’s body as she searched for the necklace that everyone seemed to cite as the cause of their problems. As expected, the emerald rested along the werewolf’s collarbones. She refrained from running her fingers over the silver clasps. It was a pretty necklace, enchantments notwithstanding. 

It looked expensive. 

It looked like something she would wear. 

_Apollo must have some crowns squirreled away,_ Reyna thought idly. _Though that makes one wonder why he was mucking about in Lesser Ironhill._

“Can this not be removed?” Reyna asked. 

Lyra shook her head, expression cross. “That is the second part. I can’t get rid of the damn thing.” She balled her fists. “I know alchemy when I see it. Whatever keeps that necklace in function is not alchemy.” 

A silence ensued. They all exchanged looks of shock and confusion. Fiona was the first to recover. She wisely dismissed the remaining attendants, leaving just the present company. 

Ayden finally tore his eyes from Quill. “If not alchemy,” he said slowly, “then what is it?” 

Lyra shrugged. “I don’t know. The necklace does not react to runes in a way that suggests it is magi in origin. I regret to say that I cannot offer more than that.” 

Reyna settled across from Ayden, taking in Quill’s features. Markings lined his upper body, all of them at varying degrees of healed. She could see rapid movement beneath his sealed eyelids. Reyna even noticed that the rise and fall of his chest mirrored the red light’s fluctuations. 

“Will it react to elemental magic?” Reyna questioned.

Lyra barked a short laugh. “Lord Arion could sprinkle some dirt over it. Perhaps that will suffice.” 

Reyna pursed her lips in irritation as Arion chuckled tiredly. Hyperion had kept his distance from their group, uncharacteristically silent. As such, Reyna was momentarily taken aback by his voice. 

“Lady Livingstone,” Hyperion said, “are you certain that there is no way to rouse him?”

“His state of consciousness is out of healers’ hands. I would not go so far as to say that he shall never resurface.” 

“How did you heal him?” 

Lyra sniffed. “I used a Philosopher’s Stone. Even with that, I wasn’t able to fully restore normality. As long as that gods-damned necklace remains, no definitive claims can be made.” 

Hyperion nodded crisply. “There is nothing to be done, then.” He turned towards Ayden, hands folded neatly behind his back. “Your Majesty, if it please you, I can begin preparations with the palace clerics.” 

“What for?” Ayden asked absentmindedly. He still held Quill’s hand in his own. Reyna watched him trace fingers over the dark, curved claws. 

“It pains me to say this, but Lord Quill cannot remain as acting Potentate in his current condition.” Hyperion’s ice-blue eyes studied the werewolf apathetically. “It is a gamble to leave his waking to chance. We cannot expect to keep his misfortune away from the kingdom for an indeterminate amount of time.” 

_Will he even wake at all?_ Reyna wondered. The soft breathing from Quill was reminiscent of a puppy falling deeper and deeper into sleep. 

“You speak as if he’s dead and gone,” Lyra said stiffly. She raised a brow at the Master of Defense. 

“Being alive and being awake are very different,” Hyperion countered. “Even if word of this does not leave the capital, someone is going to ask about him. A letter – or a call, worse still – from his family would be enough to unravel everything. Prolonged silence on his part will inspire them to ask questions.” He paused dramatically. “Questions that are too dangerous to answer. We thank Echolyse that he still lives, but we must choose practicality over sentimentality.” 

Reyna’s eyes narrowed at his flippant tone. The future of Eurydice would only grow more precarious the longer Quill was incapacitated, yet her brother seemed to have a plan brewing. His timing was impeccable. 

Hyperion directed his next words to the quiet Sovereign. “Lady Livingstone said herself that we are not working within the realm of Eurydicean magic. If a Philosopher’s Stone cannot revert this … affliction, then there is nothing in the realm that can.” 

“What are you suggesting, Hyperion?” Ayden sighed. “I’ve little patience for riddles.” 

“If we are optimistic, then whatever bizarre magic fuels the necklace will subside and Lord Quill shall wake over the morrow. If we are to be realistic, however,” Hyperion crossed his arms, “then we must admit that his life hangs in the balance. Planning for a permanent absence in Eurydice would be a better strategy than simply hoping that no one deigns to inquire about him.” 

Ayden held his gaze, letting Hyperion’s reasoning digest. He shook his head after some time, squeezing Quill’s hands once more. 

“You are all dismissed,” Ayden said. “There is much to think about. I would like to do so in solitude.” 

They did as their Sovereign bid, though Arion and Fiona remained. Ayden offered little protest to their continued presence. Reyna contemplated pushing her luck and staying as well, but opted out at the last minute. She, too, had much to think about. Reyna stared at Hyperion’s back as he set a swift exit. There was an uncomfortable feeling in her stomach. 

_What are you hiding, dear brother?_

***

The days following the festival were thankfully quieter. Hyperion had delivered Apollo the Gallant to the dungeons, and Reyna made short work of claiming him for herself. She had also involved herself in the happenings about Lesser Ironhill. Assassination attempts required a delicate touch, especially if one wished to prevent widespread knowledge of them. 

Reyna’s predecessors had developed three organized information-gathering networks that she refined during her appointment. She’d scattered agents of the Domestic Investigation Agency around Lesser Ironhill and its neighboring lands, keeping her ears open for any news. Reyna planned to mobilize the Intercontinental Investigation Agency as well, given the necklace’s apparent non-Eurydicean origins, but she had few places to begin. For now, she kept the IIA on standby. 

That left the Covert Operations. Though they fell under the Garrison, Reyna’s office still wielded control over them. She’d been content to let Hyperion use her forces as he wished, but she now needed to reclaim them. Seeing her brother fume over the constant meddling with ‘his’ army had been rewarding. 

Reyna also had her personal networks. It was good practice to keep a clean hand and a dirty hand. 

The participants of the mock tourney had been collected. Questioning was still ongoing. Reyna huffed. Few of them had anything that concretely linked them to Apollo or the necklace. He’d either crafted an expert ring of deceivers, or most of them really were just revelers with the misfortune of being in that village for the festival. 

Reyna sighed. “Surely you’ve grown bored, Sera.” 

Seraphina paused before launching another knife at Apollo. The mage cringed as it sailed past, firmly embedding itself on the wooden wall a foot behind him. Similar blades surrounded his restrained body, making half of a macabre human outline. Seraphina smiled impishly with a sharp flick of her wrist. Apollo flinched again as a knife found its mark between two others near his belly. 

Reyna, Seraphina, and Apollo had spent the days performing little dances like this one. He’d been tight-lipped at first, but the vampire women sweetly coaxed information out of him. It was precedent for the DIA to handle a case of this nature, but Reyna wished to keep things close to her chest. 

Apollo claimed that it was a chance encounter, that he’d meant to journey farther north to the Ironhill proper. Reyna took that with a grain of salt. Lesser Ironhill was a well-known city, but it was hardly the place where one would expect to find members of the royal family. 

Another thing was that Apollo truly did not work alone. He had an employer. Their identity was something Reyna was struggling to pry from the mage. 

A dull _thump!_ indicated another blade thrown. Reyna rose from her seat gracefully as Seraphina readied the next missile. She did not miss the way Apollo’s cringes lost their intensity as Seraphina progressed on the outline. The blonde vampire was skilled at her craft, but her precision was having countereffects. It was time to introduce some uncertainty. 

Reyna slid behind Seraphina leisurely, wrapping an arm along her waist. Seraphina relaxed easily, accustomed to the position. 

“You may be amused, Sera,” Reyna said, “but _I_ have grown tired of this game. Let us change the rules.” 

She held the fingers of one hand up – the one with the shortened nails - and Seraphina excitedly latched onto them. Reyna smirked as the bubbly blonde eagerly took the digits into her pretty mouth. She pulled them out with a soft _pop_ that rang across the dank cell. Apollo watched them in confusion. 

Reyna held his gaze as she fluttered her fingers along Seraphina’s abdomen. She pulled up the skirts of her lilac dress, slipping her hand within the lacy underwear. Seraphina sighed as Reyna swirled one finger sensually. Her legs parted at the gentlest of prods. 

“Keep throwing your little knives,” Reyna whispered into her ears. 

Seraphina nodded shakily. She reached for another, tossing it as Reyna breached her. 

“ _Rey_ ,” Seraphina gasped. 

The knife landed a hair’s breadth from the confines of the outline. Reyna added a second finger, smiling as Seraphina’s artwork lost its strongly-defined formation. Apollo snapped out of his apparent daze as one blade embedded itself just beneath his groin. His blue eyes widened in renewed fear. 

“You may want to start talking soon,” Reyna said as she rolled a nipple within her other hand. “Sera is getting a bit … distracted. I imagine she will not be so precise for very long.” 

As if to demonstrate, Seraphina’s next throw entirely missed its target. The knife hit another, bouncing and spinning through the air before clanking against the ground. Reyna trailed kisses along Seraphina’s neck as she kept her pace. Seraphina moved as she did, desperate for the release Reyna denied her. 

“Rey,” Seraphina begged, “please, Rey.” 

_Please, Rey._

Reyna held the squirming woman securely in her arms. A sharp movement, and Seraphina climaxed with a high-pitched cry. She unleashed another knife as she did so. Apollo gave a cry of his own, but for much different reasons. 

The knife had found a home in his upper thigh. 

Blood poured from the wound as Apollo squealed pathetically. Reyna raised a brow at him in question, but he shook his head vehemently. She smiled, slipping her fingers into Seraphina once more. The other woman shivered at the continued stimulation. Apollo gave a weak sob, hanging his head. 

“I-I’ll talk,” he whimpered, “if you take out the knife.”

 _Gods, a gash to the thigh was all it took?_ Reyna nearly laughed. 

“How about this,” Reyna countered “You talk, and if your words are satisfying, I _might_ extract the knife. I think that sounds fair. The Potentate has a necklace we cannot remove, and you have a knife I can choose to not remove.” 

Apollo blinked blearily at her. “What?”

“Come now, dear. Don’t be coy. I know that your little necklace doesn’t use alchemy.” 

“I don’t know anything about that,” he said. “I’m just a messenger, I swear! I was told to give the Potentate the necklace, make sure he wears it, and be gone by then.” 

Reyna hummed. “If you are a messenger, then I am a storyteller. Well, _messenger_ , who sent you?” 

“I … I can’t tell you that.” 

She sighed at the familiar words. Beside her, Seraphina wailed petulantly about the loss of her clean outline. Reyna instructed her to return to the surface of the palace. Seraphina obeyed, swinging her hips as she walked. 

“I’ll be waiting in your suite,” Seraphina giggled, “if you bring a chilled glass of bloodwine.” She blew a kiss at Apollo. “Perhaps we can even have some fresh blood. Sanguinem really loses its flavor after a while.” 

Reyna seated herself once more, wiping her fingers with a handkerchief. She crossed her legs and regarded Apollo thoughtfully. There were many ways to arrive at the same conclusion. It was time for a new angle. 

“Why a necklace?” Reyna asked. “It was a gamble to think the Potentate would accept it. That is not the sort of thing one takes from a stranger, however gallant.” 

Apollo squirmed as blood continued staining his trousers. His face contorted when his efforts to dislodge it only exacerbated his pain. Reyna waited patiently for him to speak. 

“He … they said he wore a necklace,” Apollo murmured. “At his wedding. Figured he had a fondness for them.”

Reyna’s eyes widened by a fraction. _The viper I chose for Quill._

She stood abruptly, the possibilities racing through her mind. Whoever sent Apollo had been at the wedding reception. They’d been nearby when Reyna had bestowed the serpentine necklace along the werewolf’s neck – had possibly even seen it up close. The elusive employer had the funds to acquire an emerald as grand as this, and to hire a grunt to do the dirty work of delivering it to Quill. Moreover, they wanted him dead. 

Unless Apollo’s story of coincidence was true, they also knew that the royal couple would be in Lesser Ironhill for the Celestial Festival. Reyna’s eyes darkened. 

“I shall send someone to tend to your wounds.” Reyna patted Apollo’s dimpled cheek. “Or I may not. I can be ever so forgetful.” 

With that, she turned and left Apollo to his sniffling. Reyna had truly had enough of blonds. There was yet another whiny blond that required her attention.

\---

“You absolute ass!” Reyna was so, _so_ tempted to screech. “You have no idea how much work you’ve just made for me!” 

She’d primly knocked on Hyperion’s door, but seeing his dry scowl had set off her hidden temper in the worst way. A surprised blink was all Hyperion had been allowed before she’d stormed into his suite and delivered a fierce slap to his face. 

The pink lines from her nails that now marred his pale skin were small consolations. She made to strike him again, but Hyperion caught her blow. She switched hands in a heartbeat, landing a solid hit against his jaw. Her brother seized both hands, spinning her around and trapping them behind her back. His fondness for firearms and his general cunt-like behaviour did not diminish the fact that he could physically overpower her. Reyna seethed as she was kept restrained. 

“We’ve talked about this,” Hyperion snarled. “ _Use your words, Reyna._ ” 

“Don’t play dumb,” she hissed back, “as much as it would please me to believe you are.” 

Hyperion bared his fangs at her. She started thrashing, bucking like a wild horse. His grip slackened, and she broke free of him with a harsh shove. They glared identical eyes at each other, both breathing heavily from their altercation. 

“What the hell is your problem?” Hyperion asked fiercely. 

“ _You_.” Reyna rested hands on her hips. “Sending an assassin after Quill? _Really?_ I did not spend years languishing in the capital at your behest just so you could throw everything away. Did it ever occur to you that your petty grudge against him could destabilize the realm?!” 

She commended Hyperion for choosing someone with seemingly little connection to him, but Reyna was incensed that Apollo had acted so publicly. Deducing that Hyperion was his employer put her in an uncomfortable spot. She’d need to completely immerse herself in the investigation; cover all evidence of her brother’s involvement. Claiming plausible deniability would be difficult, as well as-

Hyperion exhaled. “That wasn’t me, believe it or not.” 

_What?_ Reyna gaped at him. “What?” 

“I will not pretend that I’m saddened by this course of events, sweet sister. However, I had no part in them.” 

Reyna studied him shrewdly, looking for signs of deceit. She found none. Hyperion had his customary scowl in place, suggesting irritation at being accused more so than rage at being caught. Unless he’d suddenly learned to hide his tells, Hyperion was innocent of attempted regicide. 

Her flames had not yet cooled, and so Reyna directed them someplace else. “If you didn’t do it, then who did?” 

Hyperion gave her a flat look. “You tell me. Isn’t it your job to know of such matters? I thought you saw everything that happens in Eurydice.” 

Reyna trudged past him, stealing an unopened bottle of bloodwine from his cabinet. She made sure to bump into him as she walked. Hyperion began his usual complaints as to the familiarity with which she moved about his rooms. Reyna ignored him and promptly exited his suite. 

She paused when she saw Lyra lounging on a settee in the common area. Lyra looked up from her white wine idly, inclining her head. 

“I thought I heard raised voices from Lord Tydus’ quarters,” Lyra said. “What was that about?”

Reyna smiled sweetly. “Sibling spat. You wouldn’t understand.” 

She turned into her own allocated quarters before the mage could offer any more observations. To Reyna’s surprise, however, Chione awaited her and not Seraphina. Reyna distractedly poured herself a glass of Hyperion’s wine. 

“I heard the Potentate is unwell,” Chione drawled. 

Reyna sniffed, seeing no use in denying it. It was not surprising that Chione had learned of this. She would have seriously reconsidered her personal network if they missed such a thrilling story as it happened right underneath their noses. 

“Yes,” Reyna replied, taking a blessed sip of the metallic wine. “Some strange type of magic was cast on him.”

“What makes it strange?” 

“It’s not alchemy, and it certainly isn’t elemental. I’m at a loss.” _Magic is more Isabelle’s field. I’ve always thought it another odd interest of hers, but now I see its merits._

Chione dropped into an ornate armchair elegantly, dark hair fluttering behind her. She rapped fingers against the armrest thoughtfully. The scent of her foreign perfumes was an ever-present shadow. Reyna sat beside her and waited. 

“There are magics beyond Eurydice,” Chione stated. 

Reyna swirled her wine in its thin glass. “As I’ve recently been made aware.” 

The siren-elf rolled back her draping sleeves, revealing several wooden bangles and rings. She rolled her wrists, and they clacked together rhythmically. 

“There are even magics within Eurydice that the realm shuts its eyes towards,” Chione said. “Witchcraft, sorcery, voodoo, juju, dark magic.” 

Reyna furrowed her brows. “I suppose it is a bit odd to think a kingdom as large as this would only possess two types of magic.” 

She gazed deeply into the murky depths of the bloodwine. Reyna let her mind wander as it wished, thinking of solutions to their current predicament. Perhaps the IIA would have a purpose, after all. 

“Look into these magics,” Reyna commanded. “As many as you can. Use whatever resources necessary to make sure no stones are left unturned.” 

Chione nodded languidly. “Very well, my lady.” 

Reyna leaned back in her chair. She stared out of her window towards the moon. Quill’s death would be more work for her than it was worth. Aside from it being a high-profile murder, it would endanger the relative peace in the kingdom. 

She sipped her wine with a shake of her head. _Apollo’s employer is either very stupid, or they wish to see the realm delve back into chaos._


	29. Heartbreaker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A boat against the current.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Orion wants to be the cool older brother in a sitcom so bad. It’s hilarious.  
> Bonus points if you can tell which movie I'm in the mood to watch.  
> Also, I watched 365dni. Massimo is a terrible person but uuuhh ... 🥵

Orion Livingstone  
Stonerose, 1 Cardinal

***

Orion stared at the ornate wall clock as it ticked, eyes following the thin crack through the centre. _Ten, nine, eight, seven…_

The hour hand shifted with a groan that he imagined rather than heard. It was officially midnight. Orion smiled dryly and rested his cheek against his hand. 

_That marks the fourth birthday spent with no acknowledgement from you,_ he thought with an emotionless laugh. Orion was not expecting birthday presents from his mother. He was a man grown now, and a day over twenty-two besides. 

_Still, she always sends something. At least she used to._

He stared up at the large clock. It was cut in the shape of an intricate star, its wood a faded turquoise. Cesare brought it back from a journey to Prometheus when Orion was just a boy. An excited Orion would pounce on his father after his return, prompting him to drop the damn thing. Lyra had been beyond pissed that her wonderfully advanced magic was unable to repair the diagonal imperfection that marred it. 

It had been a while since Orion had heard from Lady Livingstone. It did not happen very often, admittedly, but he’d figured that his presence in Stonerose would be of interest to her. Even the Celestial Festival had passed with nary a peep from the capital. Orion shrugged to himself. 

_She’s probably too busy mastering society,_ Orion thought, _to speak to her son for five minutes. Though,_ he looked around at the bright lights and swarms of people gathered in Living Stone, _it is probably for the best._

Orion leaned against the railings lining the grand central staircase. He smiled down wolfishly at a gorgeous vampire woman with a black bob and dark lips. She returned it with a flutter of her brown eyes before disappearing into the dense crowd of partiers. 

Living Stone may have started out as a castle under the Rosemonts, but centuries of decadence had transformed it into more of a palace. Its walls accommodated Orion’s guests with ease, looming chandeliers glittering along with the moonlight shining through the large windows. Lovely ladies in short dresses poured champagne and red wine freely. Heiresses lounged just beneath, along the pool cut into a lower level of the mountain. Celebrities, socialites, film stars, nobles, and Stonerose natives alike mingled with each other as they sipped alcohol from the Livingstones’ finest collection. 

A waiter clutching a tray filled with martinis in their palm walked by. Orion deftly swiped two glasses with an enchanting smile, weaving between the dense masses. Many people threw greetings and birthday congratulations at the acting Governor as he passed. Orion laughed with them, descending the ostentatious staircase. 

His journey was interrupted by a siren in a tight, red dress. Her sea-green hair waved easily as she moved, expensive pearls glimmering on her neck. Black scales contrasted quite nicely with her brown skin and silver dress, webbed ears lined with rare southern gems. 

“Momo!” Orion called, handing her a martini. “How’s the inheritance? Did it get any larger now that your mother is on her fourth wife?” 

“Hello, birthday boy.” Moana Hale took the glass eagerly, downing its contents in one motion. She deposited it on the tray of a nearby waiter. 

“I’m afraid you’re a bit late, darling. The big day has already passed.” 

Moana smirked, pressing a kiss to Orion’s cheek as a sharply-dressed man snapped a photograph. He gripped her hip all the while. They flirted with each other over the songs from the musicians and the yelling of the people. 

Jade Caraway, a rising star in the cinema scene, flounced over to them. She wrapped herself along Orion’s arm with a bright simmer. Orion grew amused at the way Moana scowled at the ditsy actress.

“Heyyy, Ri,” Jade slurred, “we’re almost out of rosewine.” A manicured hand rested along her forehead dramatically. “I absolutely _cannot_ drink champagne. It’s bad for digestion.” She bit a nail innocently, blinking at him through her long eyelashes. “Can I send someone into your cellar to get more?” 

Orion made a show of thinking before he responded. “Who am I to deny such a heartfelt request?” 

Jade pecked his cheek – the opposite one from Moana – and scampered away in the direction of the bartenders. Moana raised a brow as Orion watched her depart. 

“You know _Jade Caraway?_ ” Moana glared. 

“Jade and I go way back.” Orion kissed her smoothly, squeezing her lower back with a firm hand. “Don’t worry, Momo. I’m all yours tonight. Your wish is my command.” 

She tugged on the collars of his white, partially-button shirt. “Good.” 

They resumed their dance of grasping hands and roving tongues, losing themselves along with the revellers. Orion broke away from her as another firework went off in the night sky. It was a regular one as opposed to magic-enhanced. He sighed in disappointment when the lights fizzled out instead of arranging themselves in unique patterns. 

Orion glanced up as a head of blond hair caught his attention. He smiled lazily at the man, shoving his untouched martini into Jason Argent’s arms. 

“Jackson!” Orion boomed. “Glad you could make it, old sport.” 

Jason hummed as he took the glass. He stopped by Orion and Moana, gray eyes guarded and impassive. Moana winked at Orion, dislodging herself from his arms. 

“Come find me in the pool when you’re done with all your noble talk,” she called, sauntering away. Sea-green locks moved in time with the swing of her hips. 

“I hate to see her leave,” Orion told Jason conspiratorially, “but Echolyse’s tits, do I love watching her go.” 

“Ah,” Jason shrugged. He looked around at the packed hall, eyes lingering on the Livingstone banners along the walls. “Living Stone is quite the impressive keep. It has been a while since I was last here.” 

Orion clapped his back good-naturedly. He’d completely forgotten about the vassal meeting his mother held nearly a year prior. 

“It is strange to think how much has happened since then,” Orion laughed. “Ten or so months ago, we were still at war with the Annex. Gods, how quickly the times change.” _Admittedly, Coven’s participation was minimal._

Jason took a sip of his martini. “This, too, shall pass, Lord Governor-”

“Orion will suffice. Ri, too, if you can earn it.” 

“-and gods know how swiftly life can pass in the blink of an eye.” Jason swirled the olive in his drink thoughtfully. “Would that I knew what allows Grand Seers to predict the events of future Eras. Surely such powers must be beyond Eurydice.” He clutched the thin stem tightly. “If only arcane knowledge of that sort was not so policed in the kingdom.” 

Orion offered an uneasy smile. 

“You are into some weird shit, Jackson.” He draped an arm across his shoulders, steering them in the direction of the pool. “Come on, then. I think we both need a good soaking.” 

They made their way across the floor. Orion sighed as they exited, feeling the cool air from the Southern Sea. Below, people milled about the pool. Torches and electricity worked to create a beach-front effect without the inconvenience of driving down the mountain. Even at this hour, vehicles still arrived at Orion’s party. 

“I had a request, Lord Orion,” Jason said. He dropped off the martini along the way. 

“What was it? I’ll honour it if I can.” 

Jason turned towards him. “Your lady mother recently made alterations to the well-established routes along western Coven. Perhaps, my lord, you would be able to restore them?” 

Orion clucked. “Perhaps, my lord, you should make another request.” 

He sighed as Jason turned his head in question. Orion had been handed a thick stack of documents by the stewards soon after he’d settled back into Stonerose. He’d skimmed through … enough of them, but they’d all proved droll and tedious. One thing he’d noticed was Lyra’s apparent restructuring of the western provinces of the region. Her reasons were beyond him, but Orion did not see fit to meddle. The satisfaction of granting Jason’s wish out of spite was not enough of a reward to actually draft the necessary paperwork for it. 

“I’ve asked Lady Livingstone to revert her changes, but she refuses with unsatisfactory explanations,” Jason said. “You, at least, seem more reasonable than her.” 

“Your words move me, mate. But I’m afraid I can’t move this.”

“With all due respect,” Jason said slowly, “it would be the simplest of tasks to undo them. My clan has seen a noticeable drop in revenue since their implementation, and-”

Orion weaved them around the various native and imported vegetations. He stopped by an outdoor bar, grabbing two frothy pineapple drinks for himself and Moana. Said siren was swimming in the pool, leaning against its sea-facing edge.

“Maybe some other time, Jackson,” he waved distractedly. 

Orion stripped down to his trunks and dived in effortlessly. He swam to Moana’s side, the drinks floating after him obediently. Each person plucked one from the air before clinking the glasses together. Moana smiled sultrily, hollowing her cheeks as she sucked on the thin straw. Her swimsuit revealed the tops of her cleavage, dark scales poking out over her chest. 

“Are you lost, sailor?” Moana asked. “My eyes are up here.” 

“Don’t blame me, doll face. Sirens lead even the greatest of men astray.” 

She rolled her eyes at the old stereotype. Orion stretched his arms out along the pool edge, studying the lights of Stonerose. People laughed as they drank and made merry. A magic-enhanced firework was finally lit, the sky exploding into several butterflies. Orion helped himself to his drink, pleased at the taste of vanilla. Beside him, the turquoise light of the pool gave Moana’s hair an almost ethereal glow. 

“People from the Siren Seas truly are gorgeous,” Orion breathed. “The rest of Eurydice does not compare.” 

Moana smirked. “You never struck me as someone that favoured Seamen.” 

Orion did not have a ‘water’ rune, so he settled for slapping the surface of the pool. Moana squeaked in surprise at the sudden precipitation. She made to retaliate, but paused at the large tattoo that stretched along his collarbones and down his side. 

“Interesting rune,” she said. “I’ve never seen one so large.” 

Orion turned so she could better admire the sea-dragon. “It isn’t a rune, darling. Just a regular tattoo that I’ve recently acquired. Mages _can_ have those, you know.” 

Moana nodded, eyes trailing down its visible length. “I suppose the full tattoo is reserved for special occasions?” 

“Indeed. It only comes out after I finish my first bottle of wine.” 

“A shame, then, that I see no wine here.” A sly expression. “Will you make an exception this once?”

Orion grinned. He and Moana abandoned their drinks along the tiled floors, swimming deep into the man-made cave hidden behind the main poolside area. Orion dismissed the two men that were in there at a respectable distance of five feet, taking ownership of the isolated corner. 

Moana pushed him against the pool wall, kissing along his ordinary tattoo. Orion sighed blissfully as she worked her way downwards. Fingers carded through dense, sea-green hair contently. The siren gave him one final nip before slowly submerging herself in the water. A gasp left him as she dragged his trunks to his mid-thigh. 

From Orion’s position, Moana’s features were heavily distorted by the turquoise ripples. She took him into her mouth slowly and seductively, her tongue running back and forth in time with the water. Orion settled himself comfortably as she worked her own brand of magic. 

For a time, the only sounds in the cave were Orion’s pleased noises and the shifting of the waves. What he wouldn’t give to breathe underwater. Orion felt the pressure in his lower regions mounting, his movements growing more erratic. He huffed in surprise when Moana suddenly resurfaced with a cheeky pout. 

“Momo,” he groaned, “that was a cruel thing you just did.” 

She rested her head on his chest, blinking up at him demurely. “Take me to your quarters,” she said. “I’ve half a mind to finish this in a bed.” 

“And I’ve half a mind to finish, darling.” 

Moana lifted herself from the pool, water dribbling off of her shapely body. Orion followed her, scrambling to pull his trunks back onto his hips. She led him out of the cave and up the steps carved into the mountain, wringing out her wet hair. Orion slipped his trousers on, leaving the shirt where it lay. He procured one more pineapple drink and sipped on it. 

The time read thirteen minutes past two o’clock, Orion noted. Many of the partiers had retreated into the great hall as the band played an upbeat number. People danced with each other most sinfully, bodies bobbing and grinding to the tune of the fast music. Had Orion not already been accosted by Moana, he’d have been much inclined to find a lovely lady to get his blood rushing. 

“Let’s go this way,” Orion said, leading Moana towards a secondary hallway. “I’d rather not strut past all of these people in just my trousers.” 

Moana giggled. “Are you embarrassed, Ri?”

“Quite the opposite, darling. I’d hate to steal attention from the band. They’ve put on such a top-notch performance.” 

_That, and I doubt the acting Governor of Coven should be seen in such an underdressed state. I’d hate for one of the photographers crawling around Living Stone to snap a photograph of me at an unflattering angle._

Their path was blocked by a wall of cheering spectators. Orion turned towards them with an apologetic glance at Moana, muscling his way to the front of the group. He frowned when he saw two mages locked in combat. They traded magic and blows with reckless abandon. The crowd swiftly parted when one was harshly thrown backwards by what was likely an elemental ‘air’ rune. 

They crashed against a gilded display. The intricate vase that sat atop it wobbled dangerously. Its weight proved too great, and it came crashing down on the ground. Orion grimaced as the shards littered the hall. 

“What’s going on here?” he asked. 

Orion had never actually paid much attention to that particular vase. If he was lucky, the broken object could be repaired using a ‘reconstruction’ rune. The crushed pieces of ceramic did not look promising, however. Some had begun to resemble sand as they were accidentally stomped upon by onlookers. 

“Hey, Ri,” one of them – Raphael F. A. Cortez – said sheepishly. He ran a hand through his dark hair with a friendly grimace. 

Antonio Velazquez, the fallen mage, lifted himself up. “Don’t freak,” he said in a panic. “Raph and I were simply up for a bit of fun. Ah,” he coughed, “sorry about your vase.” 

Orion’s eye twitched, but he shoved down the budding irritation. He was a more reasonable Governor, after all. He instead planted both hands on his hips and chuckled. 

“No harm done, boys.” With a swift hand motion, the vase opposite the shattered one came down with a sharp clang. “There. Now everything is symmetrical.” 

Raphael laughed and clapped Orion’s back. “Knew you wouldn’t be angry, Governor. You’ve always got our backs.” 

Orion returned it with a slightly harsher thump. The persistent nickname was starting to grate on him. He’d endured it in Bergellon, but it had unfortunately tailed him all the way to Stonerose. Echolyse’s tits, is this what he’d have to look forward to once he eventually took proper control of the region? A quiet voice snapped him from his internal complaints. 

“Orion?” Corvus said, shifting uncomfortably amidst all the people. 

_I honestly forgot that he was here,_ Orion blinked. “Hey, Corv. Finally decided to leave whichever crevices you like to hide in? It’s about time you started partying.” 

Corvus furrowed his brows at the destroyed vases. “What happened here? Those vases are broken.” 

“Nothing to worry about, bud. They’re just stupid vases that can be replaced in a flash.”

“They were for mother.” 

Orion rolled his eyes. “Then they’re _mother’s_ stupid vases that can be replaced in a flash.” He scanned the room quickly. “You’re fifteen, right? Let me get you a drink.” 

“I don’t want a drink.” 

Orion scoffed, floating a glass of rosewine towards them. The pink liquid sloshed along the unintentionally wobbly path he set. _Those pineapple drinks packed quite the punch._

Corvus awkwardly held the glass when it landed in his hands, gazing at everyone as they returned to their celebrations and individual conversations. Raphael and Antonio wisely took their bit of fun outside, shouting boasts as to whose alchemy was stronger. Orion loudly proclaimed his support for Raphael as they made their way out of Living Stone. 

His little brother’s features dropping in displeasure as flashes of magic erupted soon after their departure. He clutched the rosewine tightly enough that Orion worried that he’d crush the glass. 

“Orion,” Corvus said, “can you please ask everyone to leave?” 

“Hm? Why? The party’s just begun.” 

“I can’t sleep with so many strangers around.” 

Orion located Moana and turned towards her. He ruffled Corvus’ wavy hair – he’d taken to doing that these days – and threw him a beaming look. 

“Stick a pillow over your head. Or take a swig of that rosewine. Mayhap a pretty girl will even catch your eye.” Corvus frowned. “Or boy. Have it your way, Corv. Lyra’s not here, and I sure as hell won’t be grounding you anytime soon.” 

Corvus face grew blank. He inhaled deeply, levelling Orion with a flat expression.

“You’ve been hosting parties non-stop since you got here. Tell everyone to leave. Please. You’re being irresponsible.”

Orion paused. He spun around, glaring at his brother. “I’m being _irresponsible?_ I’m fostering alliances with my subjects and strengthening Coven in the way I see fit.”

“Is that what this is? Fostering alliances?” 

“What are you, my keeper? You can either have fun or make yourself scarce, Corv. The choice is entirely yours.” 

Corvus crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes. He looked like someone had shrunk Cesare into the body of a teenager and trapped Lyra’s essence within them. Orion nearly guffawed at the absurdity of the position.

“What are you trying to prove?” Corvus asked. “That you’re an exciting new Governor? That you’ll take the region in a bold new direction? That you’re better than your forbearers?” 

“I’m not _proving_ anything. I’m just being who I am.” 

“Why do you always do this, Orion?” 

Orion matched his stance. “What exactly am I doing?” 

“ _This_ ,” Corvus gestured vaguely. “Things will be going fine, and then they’ll suddenly change. You always react by doing something stupid and reckless.” Corvus’ green eyes matched Lyra’s perfectly. “Do you even care what happens while you’re off trying to be the family disappointment?” 

Orion bristled. These were words that Lyra would likely say to him in the moments when she was not too busy disregarding his existence. Orion felt strangely hurt hearing them from Corvus’ mouth. His brother’s expressionless delivery was not helping. 

People had finally started noticing their altercation. They stared in poorly-concealed fascination at the two Livingstone heirs. Orion bunched his fists tightly, ignoring their gleaming eyes. He could make Corvus hurt, too. Then at least his little brother would feel _something_. 

“You have no idea what you’re talking about!” Orion snapped. He shrugged Moana’s hand off as she tried to placate him. “I thought you were on my side, Corvus, but I guess I was wrong. You’re a fucking little Lyra clone that can’t even do magic right!” 

_Oh, no._ A hush fell over the eavesdroppers. 

Regret coursed through Orion’s veins the second those words escaped him. He cringed as Corvus grew incredibly stiff. Orion waited for the constant closed-off look to overtake him, inhaling in surprise when those green eyes grew glassy and watery instead. 

“Corvus,” Orion tried, “I-I didn’t mean that.” 

“Why?” Corvus whispered shakily. “Why would you say it if you didn’t mean it?” 

“Corvus…”

He wiped his eyes roughly, one hand still grasping the rosewine. “If I’m going to be a clone, then I’m glad it’s of mother. That’s better than the alternatives.” 

“Corvus, I’m…” The apology stuck in his throat. 

“Father died and you disappeared right after. You were both more interested in going all around Eurydice than in staying with family.” 

Orion grit his teeth. “He’s not dead! He’s just…”

“What, Orion? He’s just what? _Missing?_ That doesn’t change the fact that he’s been gone for four years!” 

“That’s not his fault! You barely even knew him, Corvus. Not the way I did. You were too young-” 

“He was my father, too!” Corvus yelled. “He had the choice to stay or go, and he chose to leave. You _both_ left within the same year.” The latent tingle of alchemy overtook the air. “Mother was the only one who stayed. She was distant, but she was there!” 

Orion swallowed. Lyra and him had clashed soon after _Silver Tide_ was reeled in, when the shock of the empty vessel had been replaced by grief and anger. He’d wanted to commandeer a ship immediately – retrace his father’s steps – but his mother had expressly forbidden it. _He’s gone,_ she’d said hollowly, _there’s no use fucking around in the Southern Sea._

So, Orion had fucked around Eurydice instead. 

“I don’t want to hate you, Orion,” Corvus said blandly, “but gods, you make it so _easy_ sometimes.” 

Corvus gave a pained look before turning his back on him. Orion raced after his brother, seizing his arm tightly. The younger Livingstone wrenched himself away angrily. 

“Wait,” Orion breathed. “Corvus, please, listen to me.” 

“I’m done listening to you!” 

Orion grabbed his shoulder this time. Corvus pushed him off once more using both hands. A faint glow from the fabric of Corvus’ shirt was the only warning Orion had before Corvus swung his right arm in a wide arc. Blue fire erupted from Corvus’ fingertips just as Orion dove out of range. 

To his horror, the glass of rosewine exacerbated the flames. Everyone scrambled to avoid the intense, sweeping fire. 

Orion readied ‘dispel’, remembering the last time he’d seen Corvus use specialized ‘fire’. Only, they’d been in the training yard then. There were many flammable things – and bodies – within the castle itself. 

Corvus quenched the flames immediately, green eyes wide in agitation. Orion would have been impressed that he managed to stop them – ‘starlight’ must have been useful, after all – but now was not the time. 

Behind them, someone screeched in pain. Jason Argent clutched his arm, the extremity red and raw. Orion was surprised that Corvus’ flames had managed to reach him. He looked between Jason and Corvus, unsure of which problem to tackle first. 

Jason decided for him. “That little brat,” he screeched, “just burned me! Which mage can’t control their own alchemy?!” 

Corvus shrunk immensely. He hugged himself tightly as Jason continued spewing venom. 

Orion faced the angry man. “Jackson, I-”

“Jason,” he hissed, cradling his burnt arm, “my name is _Jason_.” 

_Shit_. “Jason, wait-”

“You’ll pay for this!” 

“Definitely! Mage’s honour. Jason, please, I-”

Jason stormed out of the room, people rushing to steer clear of him. Orion sucked in a painful breath. He’d need to rectify that immediately. The Argents were one of the most powerful vassals in the region. If there was any clan’s support that his family needed to maintain, it was theirs. 

_Maybe … maybe I can give him what he was asking for. The-the thing about the trade routes. Yes, I think that will be perfect. That along with what else he demands should be sufficient._

Corvus gave him one last teary expression before leaving as well. 

Orion addressed the crowd wearing his best smile. He clapped and raised a glass with false bravado, ignoring the wariness settling in his bones. The people watched him uncertainly. 

“What’s the matter, ladies and gentlemen? The night is still yet young. I expect that my casks of the finest Covense reds will be a welcome addition!” 

He waved for a servant to open Lyra’s cellars once more, and they moved to obey. The tension in the air soon dissipated as people helped themselves to the truly disgusting red wine. Orion shuddered as they all drank their fill, praising the vintage. Flashes of light from photographers and their cameras would periodically envelop the room. 

The gossip columns would have a field day with this. 

Orion looked at the singed floors, pushing them back in his mind. Someone would clean it up eventually. He just … he needed to be alone for a while. There were too many people around. 

Moana tried to follow him, but Orion waved her off with a tired smile. He trudged up the grand staircase and headed towards his quarters at a brisk pace. The noise of the party died down the deeper he went, but it did not fade completely. 

_Corvus was right,_ Orion laughed hollowly, _you can still hear everyone from up here._

Orion shut his doors tightly, leaning against the cool surface for several heartbeats. He finally pried himself away once the world stopped spinning. His eyes landed on the personal speculum that rested on a pedestal aside his nightstand. Orion sidled up to it, taking the small artefact in his hands. 

He considered contacting Isabelle or Quill. Though the three of them were now the same age, Orion oft times felt so far behind. They both had their shit together, what with Isabelle’s complicated-sounding research and Quill being the literal Potentate of the Kingdom of Eurydice. The latter must have been especially busy lately, as Quill had not spoken to Orion on his birthday.

Orion tapped the speculum to activate it, inputting a specula signature. A flash of blue-white light glowed from its smooth surface, painting the dark room in dull shades. After nearly a lifetime, an irritated face came into view. 

“The fuck, Governor?” Axle complained. “It’s ass o’clock. I would not have answered if I knew it was you.” 

Orion exhaled. “Come to Stonerose,” he said softly. 

“Why the fuck would I do that?” 

“I’ll cover transport.” Orion hesitated. “You can bring Dante if you want. Whatever gets you to come.” 

Axle raised a brow at his flat tone. “Alright, heartbreaker,” she drawled, “whose heart did you break?” 

Orion swallowed, fiddling with the hem of his trousers. He eyes were uncomfortably dry as he fought the tightness in his throat. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse. 

“Someone I love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The greatest joy of writing is to hurt your characters, and right now I am having a blast. Sorry, Orion stans.


	30. Blood Money

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Decisions, decisions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Corvus and Orion have failed to achieve introvert-extrovert solidarity. Also, underaged drinking isn't cool, kids. Be like Corvus. Set the alcohol on fire instead (don't do this indoors).

Hyperion Tydus  
The Ironhill, 1 Cardinal

***

Amidst the excitement since the Celestial Festival, Hyperion had nearly forgotten about Julius Wolff’s presence in the Ironhill. 

The others seemed to feel the same, Caedis especially. Another Annexian werewolf held the Inner Circle’s collective attention, after all. Hyperion had half a mind to take a pillow and just smother the damn Potentate as he lay helpless. That, or smash the Philosopher’s Stone that sustained him. He’d certainly be doing Apollo’s employer a favour.

Apollo the Gallant was also of interest. Hyperion could not care less about the man himself – he’d been only completing a transaction, and middlemen were not important at the end of the day. No, his employer was the real focus. Hyperion had been truthful when he informed Reyna of his innocence in the mage’s schemes. Mages were a shifty lot, prone to rebelling in their spare time. It was quite surprising that they did not jump at the chance to aid the Insurgents. 

Hyperion narrowed his eyes as he traversed the palace dungeon. There was a new player in this great game they all played, but he did not know who they were. Reyna had commandeered the aspiring assassin entirely. Her office allowed her to block access for nearly everyone outside of her intelligence-gathering networks, save the Sovereign. 

Said man wisely distanced himself from Apollo. Caedis caught a glimpse of the man briefly, after Hyperion had retrieved him from Lesser Ironhill. The rage in the Sovereign’s eyes was a sight to see. Hyperion half-expected the Viper to strike in the few seconds they spent in each other’s presence. Had Apollo been the sole actor, he’d likely have had no qualms about it. 

Such bloodlust was not unfamiliar. Hyperion had seen it before, after news of Selene’s passing reached the capital. The depths of the Viper’s fury had been astounding.

Hyperion’s appointment came just before the former Potentate began talks of an Annexian voyage. Animosity between spouses was not a foreign concept to him. He’d concluded that the left and right hands of Eurydice held little love for each other. Hyperion meant to replace her after she died, like his father had tried to replace his mother with whichever commonfolk woman held his attentions. Yet, the Sovereign’s subdued nature after Stepes proved him wrong. Hyperion had assumed that he’d never encounter that bloodlust again. 

Seeing Caedis attack a mage armed with nothing but a sword proved Hyperion wrong anew. Learning that _Quill Lycan_ of all people was the reason for its return left him agape. 

_No matter,_ Hyperion thought. _This just provides me with a new way to play the game. Caedis’ bloodlust is powerful, but a skilled hand can guide it in whichever direction they wish. I have done it before, and I can do it once more._

Still, it would be good to have more potential allies. What better time than now, when everyone was so distracted? 

He’d lost Reyna as a principal weapon the moment Grand Seer Calliope blessed the royal union. It would take charisma beyond Hyperion to arrange a third marriage if the current Potentate were to join his predecessor. Luckily, Apollo had inadvertently given him a reason to maintain his tight grasp on the Garrison. And with his little southern friend growing more influential each day, it would not be long before Hyperion held all of the cards. 

_Here sits one card now,_ Hyperion thought as he came upon Julius Wolff. _Another to hide up my sleeve._

Hyperion poured a glass – a proper one this time – of wine, stopping just short of the bars. The palace dungeons were much cleaner than Fort Imperial’s had been, especially as they were on the level reserved for political captives. It helped that Julius himself was more manageable than his father. He’d arrived with little difficulties, the picture of an ideal prisoner. It appeared that the tales of his meekness held merit. This would be a quick dalliance, then. 

“Wine?” Hyperion asked, bolder than he’d been with Silas. 

Julius cocked his head. His dark yellow eyes were neither suspicious nor welcoming. Hyperion frowned at the lacklustre response. He waved the glass again to reiterate his offer. 

“You’re making me blush,” Julius said. His voice was soft, so unlike his father’s rough growl. “Do you offer wine to all of your prisoners?”

Hyperion faltered. “Just the ones that behave themselves.” 

“I see. I assume my father was given no such courtesies during his stay in the capital?” 

“Not in the Ironhill, no. He was more than happy to accept wine once he reached Fort Imperial.”

Julius hummed. Hyperion furrowed his brow at the man. He’d expected begging and snivelling immediately upon his entrance, perhaps even a desperate scramble for the wineglass. Borderline _indifference_ had not crossed his mind. 

“Might I trouble you for a chat?” Hyperion tried, seating himself on the floor. He grimaced at the action, but there were no movable chairs for him to use. 

“Wine _and_ conversation? How kindly I am being treated. Can I request some cheese as well?” 

Hyperion chuckled. “If our conversation yields satisfactory results, you may request more than just cheese.” 

“In that case, I’d like to request your name instead.” 

Hyperion hesitated before answering with a pseudonym. Better he masqueraded as some talkative servant than introduce himself as a member of the Inner Circle. Warmongers like Silas valued strength, but Julius seemed the type to favour sympathy. 

Julius thanked him politely, yellow eyes unblinking. 

He studied the werewolf before him critically. Hyperion’s hold over Fort Alpha – over most of the Annexian strongholds, really – was weaker than he was comfortable with. General Lazarus was working on re-establishing those divisions of the Garrison under the crown, but the Annex did not know Hyperion in the way that he wanted. Combined with his tremulous hold over Fort Oracle due to Coven’s neutrality, Hyperion’s influence in the western half of Eurydice was limited. 

Many of the names that Silas listed had already declared for the Lycans. Hyperion was running out of time to build a secondary army, especially with Quill in his current state. A few clans remained obstinate; however, there was nothing that unified people more than the death of one of their own. Hyperion needed to establish a firm presence in the Annex before Theron Lycan seized unquestionable control. 

“I admit that I know less about you than I did your father,” Hyperion said. “What I have gathered is that you are little loved by your former subjects.” 

Julius regarded him blankly. “You seem to have put a fair amount of thought into me. I’m flattered. Though,” he turned away, “I wonder what tales my former subjects would offer.”

“Your decision to relinquish Homestead was not a popular one. It all but ensured a crown victory. They say that your father would not have suffered such a defeat willingly.” 

The corner of Julius’ lip pulled upwards, the only expression Hyperion had seen on him thus far. Julius rose from the small bed and trotted towards the bars. Hyperion noted the lack of heavy shackles that were in sharp contrast to the elder Wolff. He maintained his seated position. Making Julius feel in-control of their present situation would allow for mistakes that Hyperion could exploit. 

“The Annex compares me to that beast of a man,” Julius said calmly, “and it finds me lacking because bloodshed brings me little pleasure.” He heaved a dry laugh. “Coward, they call me. Toothless; clawless.” Clawed fingers gripped the bars. “Tell me, my friend, is it so wrong to detest war? Is it a crime if a father wishes to see his children once more?” 

Julius’ eyes seemed to glow from their sunken sockets. “History is a cruel mistress. I delivered whichever soldiers I could save to their families after the hell of the Red Massacre.” Nails scraped against metal as his hold tightened. “The Annex rejoiced at their return in one breath, and cursed me as a vile coward in the next.”

Hyperion set the wineglass aside. “Is it not your way to die before surrendering? By your own region’s words, you should have stayed in Homestead and died with your troops.”

“We occupied Stepes for two decades before the Massacre. I treated Homestead with kindness when I held it – meant to barricade it from crown forces. If having my people live to fight another day makes me worse than my father, then so be it.” A sad glimmer. “I’d never thought the Skyreach boy capable of such an underhanded move.”

“I suppose the promise of a new master was too great, my lord. If you strike a pup, it will bite you once it grows.” 

_We are simply talking in circles. How do I make you give me what I want?_ Goading Julius did not seem to have the same effect as it had with Silas. Hyperion tapped the glass idly. _Revenge, then. Whether against the crown or the Insurgents that betrayed your family remains to be seen._

“You clan words are ‘Take What They Owe’,” Hyperion drawled. “I imagine there is precious little you can take from a cell. What if I said that I could see your clan restored?” _What entices one Wolff will entice another._

Julius soon grew curious. “You are planning something, aren’t you? Vampires are always _planning_ something.” He laughed once more. “You are a race of snakes led by the most dangerous snake of them all.” A brief flash of anger crossed his docile features. “Theron Lycan is a snake himself. He must fit right in.”

_So, revenge against the traitors is your immediate concern. You are more like Silas Wolff than your people realize._

“Yes,” Hyperion agreed. “Governing the Annex seems to agree with him. Alas,” he stood, leaving the glass where it rested, “the murky conclusion of the Werewolf Insurgency has left a bad taste in many mouths.”

Julius shook his head with a far-off look. “The crown won,” he said. “It may have done so on another’s terms, but it won.”

“Yet now a _Lycan_ sits the throne. It seems a bit odd, does it not, that an Insurgent should stand alongside the clan they took up arms against?” 

This was Hyperion’s chance to assure Julius of their common enemy. A few well-placed words and vague promises would be all he needed to wring waves of information out of the man. 

“Little Lapdog, my father called him,” Julius said. “A lovely pet to delight and enchant the realm.” 

Hyperion blinked, wondering when Julius had had a chance to speak with Silas after the Sack of Scarwood Hold. He’d been informed of their imprisonment in their own keep. _Lord Lycan must have kept them confined near each other. A juvenile mistake._

“It was a cruel thing, sending the Lycan boy here,” Julius continued. “Who would give their child to an enemy? I hope, for his sake, that his father prepared him for a life spent in the service of vampires. Even the foulest of werewolves cannot compare to your people’s thirst for blood.”

“ _Your_ children are in the hands of an enemy as we speak. Surely you must wish to rescue them.” _Children are so often a weakness._

Julius smiled sadly. “Oh, but I do. Yet I am one man.” He sighed. “Sakura, at least, has some measure of protection. That is small comfort.” 

“I’d like to make a deal, Lord Wolff.” 

“I’m afraid I cannot give you much in return.” Yellow eyes sharpened. “I question what a lowly servant such as yourself could offer in the first place. What exactly would I do with wine or an extra loaf of bread? It will not save my family.” 

Hyperion folded his hands behind his back, choosing his next words carefully. With Silas, the opportunity for bloodshed had been a strong enough motivating force. The late Wolff’s lack of clarity derived from pain and intoxication had been useful in clouding his judgement. Julius, unfortunately, was in a more stable condition. Hyperion would need to prey on his concern for his family’s wellbeing if he had any hopes of adding this card to his deck. 

Before that, however, he’d need to make a few sacrifices. 

“I apologize, my lord,” Hyperion said smoothly. “I fear I have misled you.” 

“Oh?”

“I am no ordinary servant. You see, I wield quite a bit of power in Eurydice.” 

“Truly? I am honoured that you would deign to visit me in my humble cell. I don’t suppose the name you gave me was your real one?” 

Hyperion hummed. “It was not. Should we come to a mutually beneficial agreement, I’d be inclined to give it to you.” 

Julius stared at him for several heartbeats. There was silence as the man seemed to quarrel with himself. Hyperion allowed him time to do so, resisting the urge to tap his feet impatiently. 

This level of the dungeon was closer to the surface than others. As such, Hyperion could hear the irritating howls of Quill’s dog as it searched for its master. The animal was no longer permitted within the Potentate’s wing, what with his delicate health. Why the werewolf even kept his dog in his quarters to begin with was beyond Hyperion. 

“I’ve enjoyed your company, my lord,” Julius said. “Truly, it is pleasing to be spoken to as if I were human once more.” Hyperion fought a satisfied smirked. “Be that as it may. I’ve grown tired of these games. Remus shall do with me what he sees fit, and I will gladly obey.” 

Hyperion frowned. “And if your god were to call for your execution?” 

“Then I shall die. It’s beautiful, isn’t it? So plain and simple.” 

_What the hell?_ “Your father is gone, making you the rightful Governor of the Annex. Do you not wish to claim your titles? Take what is owed to you?” 

Julius shrugged. “I never wanted those titles. It is a relief, I think, to be rid of them.” 

“What about your daughter, then? The one trapped in Theron Lycan’s jaws?”

“I watched Theron himself remove her from the dungeons,” Julius exhaled tiredly. “It is not unusual for werewolf children to be separated from their families.” He glanced at the corner of his cell. “I know his game. He means to tame the wolf. So be it.” 

Frustration built in Hyperion at Julius’ noncommittal responses. “You’d have her be a prisoner in the keep that would have once been hers?”

“I’d have her remain alive. Is she dead?” He smiled at the hesitation from Hyperion. “No, she’s not. That is enough.” 

“And your other children?” 

“Remus will do with them what he wishes.” The words were spoken hollowly. 

Hyperion bared his fangs in poorly concealed anger. _No, no, no! Your people proclaim you a coward, not some pious saint. You are meant to be lapping up any chances that are given to you._

“That’s it?” Hyperion hissed. “You’re going to sit here and let the gods decide everything? What happened to death before surrender?” 

Julius blinked curiously. Hyperion glared at him intensely. 

“I _will_ die, will I not?” Julius asked. “It seems I am doing my duty.” 

Hyperion’s rage boiled over. “You really are a spineless coward,” he sneered. “I hand you the keys to your salvation, and here you are rejecting them. Fool.” 

He turned to leave Wolff’s cell. This had been a waste of time. If Julius wanted to remain a caged wolf, then _so be it_. Hyperion would not bother-

“A thrilling story this would make,” Julius near-whispered. “Perhaps the Viper will be lenient if I reveal that he has a traitor in his midst.” 

Hyperion froze. He turned around slowly, eyes wide in shock. 

“ _What?_ ” 

Julius smiled. “You’re a vampire that wields quite a bit of power in Eurydice. I’m not exactly the expert on eastern politics, but I’d wager that you belong to some Caedis vassal clan.” 

Hyperion stiffened. “Are you implying something, Lord Wolff?” 

“Was I unclear the first time, my lord? Unless it is custom to personally offer wine and the keys to salvation to all the palace’s prisoners, I imagine you’re going behind a few backs.” 

“What makes you think anyone would believe you? You don’t even know my name.” 

Julius returned to the bed, seating himself neatly. “If you meant to use the darkness to your advantage, it did not work. Werewolves were built for night-time, just as vampires are. It’s not so shrouded in here that I can’t see your face. Those eyes are quite distinctive.” 

That dull resignation returned to Julius’ own eyes. “Truth be told, I’ll likely die no matter what I do. That, or be sent to Frostgate to live out whichever measly years await me. Perhaps Dionysia will even join me in my suffering. It would be romantic, like those tales Sakura so loves.” Julius shook his head. “No, my days are numbered. Yours, however …”

“Good night, my lord,” Hyperion said crisply. 

He stormed out the dungeon quickly, fighting the ice in his veins. Hyperion had underestimated Julius Wolff, but he did not know how much this mistake would cost him. 

Hyperion had thought that Julius would pounce on the chance for freedom and revenge like a starving dog with a bone. He’d been wrong. This man was a Wolff through and through. _Death before surrender._ Though he may be doing so quietly, Julius was indeed choosing death. _What a fool_. 

Except he may not be so quiet. 

Was his threat a bluff? Hyperion did not know when Julius would be executed or sent to Frostgate as an alternative. How long would the man keep his mouth shut? 

_I should’ve waited until Julius was definitively going to die,_ Hyperion chided himself, _as I’d done with his father. He could be bluffing as a means to make me tremble. Then again, he really does not have anything to lose._

Even if people doubted Julius’ words, they would still question why he chose Hyperion of all people to lay accusations against. 

Hyperion cursed. He’d been rash. He’d moved too quickly, and now his king was in check. 

His retreat from the dungeon led him up the steps and through the halls of the throne room. The throne of flames cast a dark golden hue over the rectangular room. Hyperion glared at the Caedis and Lycan banners as they flew astride the crown. Serpent and tower both mocked him from their high perch above the Red Throne. 

Moonlight peeked out from underneath the heavy curtains draped over the large windows. Hyperion sidled up to the throne, making sure that he was truly alone. He reached out for the nearest gold encasement reverently, wanting to feel it within his grasp once again.

Hyperion stopped short when he heard a sharp hiss. 

The white basilisk uncoiled itself from a nearby shard of gold, rearing its serpentine head at him. It unfurled its hoods, flicking a dark tongue at the Master of Defense. Hyperion glared at the pale serpent and entertained the thought of killing it. He looked around for the royal heirs, but neither twin appeared to claim their snake. 

_Why in Echolyse’s name do Caedis’ brats allow such beasts to roam?_ Hyperion wondered. The snakes had grown quickly once they’d settled in with their new owners, the white one especially so. Hyperion wished the Viper had never visited that thrice-damned village near Fort Imperial. The Palace had been better without serpents at every turn or haunting howls deep in the night. 

***

That damned dog was howling again. Every night saw Hyperion waking up in a cold sweat, wondering if this was the day someone started asking dangerous questions. 

His conversation with Julius left him on edge, overanalysing every strange look from the Sovereign. Hyperion had walked away from the bloodthirsty Silas Wolff with his head held high, yet the Coward of the Annex had brought him low. The former Governor’s clacking laughter rang through his ears at the irony. 

Hyperion had replayed Julius’ words numerous times since leaving the dungeons. Each time, he found a new aspect to fret over. An angle he should have taken; a better-pursued line of dialogue; a name he should have mentioned. 

An untouched glass of wine he should not have forgotten. 

In his ire, Hyperion had left the wine and its glass where it sat on the floor. Someone had already retrieved it by the time he’d remembered. The wine itself was a generic bottle - one that he was not known to favour – but it was _odd_ for it to be sitting outside the cells of a detested prisoner. Even if Julius kept mum, brows would be raised as to how it found its way there. 

Worse still, he’d used one of his own glasses. They were a unique shape, bordered with red and black trim. 

Hyperion groaned. He was not the type to ostentatiously display his personal possessions before the world. That being said, he’d had wine served to him using those glasses on a handful of occasions. He doubted others would recognize them upon first glance – for who pays attention to wineglasses? – but one sweep of his suites would reveal their clear origins. The chances of such a thing were low, but they were not _zero_. 

He could almost see Reyna’s superior smirk at his mistake.

The soaked fabric of his shirt clung to his clammy skin. Hyperion peeled it off, tossing it into some corner of his chambers. His nights in the capital were starting to resemble those spent in Dragonfyre Keep whenever he forced himself to return. Gods, how he despised Starkhall. Must those demons follow him here, too? 

_Everything is fine. The Viper is too busy fussing over his husband to attend to a contained and docile prisoner. Everything is fine._

Hyperion ran a hand through his hair. He rose and leaned against his dresser, staring into the mirror with a glare. Enoch Tydus smiled back. Sometimes the only thing that reminded him that he was not his father was that jovial smile. Hyperion despised that smile, too. A smiling mouth hid foul secrets.

 _Do you want to pick some berries? Up north, where the dark ones grow._

_Mother said not to eat those._

_Don’t worry, we won’t be eating them. And mother’s not here, anyway. Not anymore._

Hyperion rubbed his eyes and growled. His eyes, just like _hers_. Colder than all of the ice in the Frozen Waste, yet filled with the hatred of a thousand suns. Hatred for Enoch; hatred for Hyperion. Hatred for Reyna and Isabelle, too, though Hyperion could not bring himself to tell them. 

_Would you have hated Ares as well, if you’d lived to see him grow?_ Hyperion wondered. _Or was that only reserved for us? Would you still glare daggers of ice if you could see how far I’ve lifted the clan that you ruined?_

Hyperion hung his head, shutting his eyes tightly. He could hear Julius’ whispered threats mixed in with his demons from the past. Julius was making him paranoid. He needed the man gone, but he had no way of doing so without raising suspicions. 

He needed to get out of this room. He needed to get out of the Ironhill. 

Hyperion left his suite, breathing in the relatively fresher air of the common area. He rubbed his temples as his heartrate returned to normal. The barking of a dog pulled him from his racing thoughts. Hyperion frowned. It sounded … close. He looked about the room until he heard soft yapping once more, followed by a gentle hush. 

_Is the dog really in Reyna’s quarters?_ There were so many people it could attach itself to as possible replacements for Quill, yet it chose _Reyna_? Hyperion almost laughed at the absurdity. His sister had better shut it up before it woke the whole Palace. 

More voices came from Reyna’s chambers. Hyperion’s eyes twitched. She was likely having another tryst with that blonde courtier she was so fond of. Sound travelled a lot easier in the Master’s Suites than one would think, and Hyperion had heard more from Reyna’s nightly endeavours than he’d ever wanted to. 

Light Briarean undertones mingled with Reyna’s own Sanguin tongue. _That_ was unexpected. Hyperion narrowed his eyes. What were Sylph and Caedis doing in Reyna’s room at this hour? 

Hyperion grasped her doorknob and twisted it softly. He tiptoed inside, keeping his footsteps as soundless as possible. The voices grew clearer as he drifted near Reyna’s sleeping quarters. Hyperion was taken aback when _Livingstone’s_ quick accent rang through. 

_What in the name of all five gods is happening?_ Hyperion swallowed tensely. _And why am I excluded?_

“Can’t you put that dog in a kennel?” Hyperion heard Lyra say. “It’s getting fur everywhere.”

“No,” Caedis responded. “Crescent screams whenever she’s locked up. I don’t know what to do with her.” A quiet thud. “What the – why is she so agitated all of a sudden?”

A series of dull scratches came from Reyna’s side of the door. The voices died down immediately. Hyperion bit his lip apprehensively when he heard Reyna ask who was outside her chambers. He let himself in slowly, slipping on a mask of neutrality. Reyna pursued her lips petulantly at his intrusion. It served her right for constantly welcoming herself into Hyperion’s suite. 

“Blondie?” Sylph blinked, cocking his head. “What are you skulking around for?” 

Hyperion shrugged. “I thought there was something barking in the suites. It appears I was correct. Ah, forgive my state of undress.” 

The dog – Crescent – flounced over to Hyperion. She placed her paws against his knees, panting all the while. Her fluffy tail swished excitedly as she licked his fingers. Hyperion grimaced. 

“Thank the gods,” Lyra murmured. “That’s the first time she’s stopped whining in a while.” 

Hyperion observed the four people before him. He closed the door and sat in the nearest chair, making it clear that he had no plans to leave this little rendezvous. Crescent sat at his feet, resting her head in her paws. 

“May I ask why you are all gathered?” Hyperion inquired. _Particularly with regards as to why I was not involved._

They each traded several glances with each other. Hyperion absentmindedly stroked the dog’s ears as he waited, fighting the nervousness rising in his throat. It nipped his fingers playfully. Eventually, they came to some agreement. It was Reyna who spoke. 

“Thorfinn Ragnarsson,” she said blandly. 

Hyperion practically deflated from relief. “The … the titan from Boreas? He’s still in the country?” Reyna nodded. “What is so interesting about him?” 

“Reyna says he can help,” Arion said. “He claims to know a thing or two about magic.” 

Reyna hummed. “There are many magics in existence. I had both the DIA and the IIA looking into the most feasible disciplines.” She crossed her arms thoughtfully. “Ragnarsson thinks himself a scholar – a connoisseur of the arcane arts. Tundra is more,” she waved vaguely, “lenient about certain branches than Eurydice is.” 

Hyperion leaned forward in his seat. The Inner Circle had met the Great Chieftain sometime before Quill’s coronation. He’d requested an invite to the event, and Caedis had found little reason to deny it. If nothing else, it opened the door for future negotiations between Tundra and Eurydice. The whereabouts of the titan party had slipped Hyperion’s mind soon after. 

“I fail to see how that connects to Quill,” Hyperion said. “Does Ragnarsson have some convenient spell that will unclasp the necklace?” 

“He has ideas, alright,” Livingstone muttered. Her displeased features matched Sylph’s. 

“Care to elaborate?” 

Caedis sighed. “Blood magic,” he said plainly. 

Hyperion’s incredulity must have shown on his face, for the Sovereign sighed even deeper. 

“Don’t ask me,” Caedis said. “I’m just repeating what Reyna told us.” 

Livingstone scowled lightly. “Blood magic has been outlawed since the days of the Tyrant. As someone that can use magic, I must say that this is uncomfortable territory.” 

“Agreed,” Sylph said. 

Hyperion’s fingers ran circles along the dog’s head. It was oddly comforting. He listened quietly as the others discussed the prospect of the highly illegal practice. _It seems that none of them have had a chance to speak with Wolff. Good._

“This … blood magic,” Hyperion drawled, “how would it work? I’d like to know what is running through Ragnarsson’s head.” 

Reyna bit her lip. “It’s a moral gray area,” she said cryptically. 

“A _very_ dark gray,” Arion mumbled. “It’s fucked up, more like.”

Hyperion narrowed his eyes. “Can I please get a clear answer?” 

“It involves buying Quill’s life,” Reyna said, “using blood money.” 

“Blood money?”

Caedis rose and started pacing. His red eyes seemed to glow. “A life for a life. Someone will have to die if we want Quill’s health restored and that necklace gone.” 

“Like I said,” Lyra hissed, “ _uncomfortable_ territory.” 

Hyperion threaded his fingers together. A plan began to brew in his mind at that revelation. Perhaps Echolyse was smiling upon him after the past miseries she decided to inflict. He bit his lip to avoid a smile, instead asking who they had in mind. 

“Apollo,” Caedis growled at once. He balled his bandaged hands into fists. “It’s only fitting. He’s the reason we are considering this madness in the first place.” 

Reyna tutted. “I need him alive. He’s still useful as long as I don’t know who sent him.” Ice-blue eyes drifted to Hyperion for half a heartbeat. 

“I don’t suppose an animal will suffice?” Lyra asked dryly. She raised a hand in defence as all eyes fell on the dog. “I didn’t mean Potentate Quill’s pet! Perhaps some stray alley cats.” 

“I’ve little knowledge on magic,” Reyna stated, “but even I know that doesn’t sound balanced.” 

Hyperion allowed a few moments to pass before voicing his thoughts. “Julius Wolff.” 

Caedis stopped pacing with a startled jump. “ _Julius Wolff_?” He said incredulously. “Gods, I completely forgot that he was here.” 

“That’s an odd suggestion,” Lyra said. “Why him? I’m surprised you thought of Wolff so quickly, Lord Tydus. He’d slipped my mind entirely.” 

Inquisitive green eyes landed on him. Hyperion sucked in a breath. 

_Does she know something she’s not mentioning? Could she have been the one to take the wineglass?_ He ran his tongue over his fangs. _No, impossible. It was ordinary wine, and she’s never seen the glasses I favour. Still, I need to tread carefully._

“A life for a life,” Hyperion repeated Caedis’ earlier words. “A werewolf for a werewolf. Wolff’s trial awaits, but I highly doubt that he’d be found innocent before a court of law. A death sentence is all but guaranteed. That, or he shall rot in Frostgate.” He let the silence linger. “This way, at least, his life can serve a tangible purpose.”

Caedis shifted in discomfort. Aside him, Sylph was solemn for once.

“That doesn’t change the fact that blood magic is punishable by death,” Sylph said. “Eurydice isn’t Tundra. Not even the Sovereign is above the law, let alone a foreign dignitary.” 

Hyperion’s hold on the dog tightened. “The Sovereign _is_ the law. They can bend it as they wish.” He turned to the Viper. “It’s your choice, Your Majesty. Your husband, or a war criminal.” 

Red eyes grew distant as they all waited for his decision. Caedis fiddled with the sleeves of his shirt, the white bandages around his palms appearing gray in the dim atmosphere of Reyna’s chambers. The Sovereign turned to the owner of said chambers with an unreadable expression. 

“Are you sure this is the only way?” he asked weakly. 

Reyna shook her head. “I won’t claim certainty. It’s simply the closest I’ve come thus far in my investigations.” A manicured hand graced her hip. “I will do as you command. Say the word, and I shall either summon Ragnarsson to the palace or thank him for his insights and send him on his way.” 

Hyperion sat with bated breath as a myriad of emotions finally crossed the Viper’s face. He and his Suzerain seemed to have some wordless conversation, one which concluded just as silently as it began. 

“It’s either Quill or Julius Wolff,” Caedis said, more to himself than any of them. 

He inhaled deeply and slowly released it. The tension was palpable. Hyperion stroked Crescent as the electricity built in the air as it would just before a storm. When Caedis spoke, it was like the first strike of lightning after hearing nothing but far-off thunder. 

“I choose Quill.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I bet First of an Era would be hilarious from Hyperion’s perspective. Just imagine it. You’re chilling, wondering when it’s socially acceptable to leave a function. Suddenly everyone is screaming, the queen is dying, and the king and prime minister are trying to kill some guy. The mandem are just all-out brawling.


	31. A Knight in Shining Armor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isabelle makes a friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You’ve made it out of the Angst Zone, and unlocked a new location! I don't know how college worked in the early 20th century, so it's going to work like it does now! :)  
> Hyperion: *exists*  
> Crescent: it’s free real estate  
> \--  
> Reyna and Sera: *getting steamy*  
> Hyperion: I imagine death so much it feels more like a memory

Isabelle Tydus  
Courtmere, 1 Cardinal

***

_Bella tucked brown hair behind her ears, blinking at Edmund in shock. Cerulean orbs stared back at her expectantly, bright diamonds of light emanating from his glistening skin._

_“Why aren’t you afraid of me?” Edmund asked, voice silky and husky like blood poured over chocolate. “All of the girls are afraid once they find out what I truly am.”_

_“I’m not like the other girls,” Bella whispered. She bit her lip with a tenuous hope._

_Edmund looked away mournfully. “I’m a monster, Bella. I’ll only hurt you. It’s what monsters do.” His fists clenched over his muscled chest. “We hurt things that are fragile.”_

_“I’m not too fragile to love a monster.”_

Isabelle slammed the book shut with an irritated huff. She’d read the damn story several times over, yet _this_ scene always had her cringing. Its portrayal of vampires was so absurdly comical that it had her eyes twitching during each read. A few moments to collect herself would be all she needed before she was ready to endure more words.

“ _A-hem_ ,” a snooty voice tutted. “ _Miss Tydus._ ”

Isabelle sighed as she heard the brush of long skirts along the floor, finally tearing her eyes away from the worn cover. Professor Eva Eliopoulos glared back at her, thin eyebrows twitching in time with the blood vessel along her forward. The magi woman pursed her lips in a severe frown. As usual, not a button on her blouse or a gray hair in her high bun was out of place.

“Yes, Madame?” Isabelle awkwardly shuffled the novel underneath her notebook.

“What did I just say?” Professor Eva hissed.

Isabelle swallowed. “Miss Tydus.”

A snicker coursed round the room as her fellow students laughed. Isabelle did not find her answer particularly humorous. If possible, that response made Professor Eva even more murderous. She turned away with a crisp flourish, low heels clicking against the floors. On the board at the front of her lecture hall sat several diagrams.

“ _As I was saying_ ,” the professor growled, “the study of the oracular arts is a long yet little-understood one.” With a wave of her conduit, several pieces of chalk began to float. “Igneous Pontifex pioneered the discipline-”

Isabelle’s eyes glazed over. She’d taken this class to gain more insights into the magics around the world, but had quickly become _bored_ as Eliopoulos’ sharp voice and tedious explanations of the inanest aspects diminished any pleasure.

 _How exactly could one make predicting the future such a dry topic?_ Isabelle wondered.

“-Eurydice’s alchemy bears strong resemblance to spellcasting and sorcery, a few of its cousins across the oceans. Even elemental magic-”

Isabelle snuck a peek at the clock on the wall. It seemed frozen in place, as if someone had cast a time spell on it. That, or its mechanisms were non-functioning. Isabelle grabbed her pen and began sketching the general runes, idly contemplating the possibility of time-altering runes. They had not been created yet, as far as she knew, but alchemy was nothing if not changeable.

She stealthily returned to her guilty pleasure once more, stealing glimpses when Eliopoulos’ back was turned. Lecture continued painfully, with Isabelle and the professor playing a game of cat-and-mouse. The loud ringing from the bell attached to the central spire of the Arcane Institute told Isabelle that it was now noon. She carefully placed her belongings in her rucksack, eager to leave but unwilling to damage any items.

“Do not forget to read chapters twenty through forty-five!” Professor Eliopoulos instructed. “I expect a ten-page analysis demonstrating your understanding of Igneous Pontifex’s decoding of the Arcanum Antiquis!”

Isabelle rolled her eyes as her classmates groaned, heading out of the lecture hall. They were all overreacting. Pontifex’s written structures were dense but not awfully long. It would not be exceptionally difficult, just mind-numbing. A few nights of dedicated study would see her with the required writing component and extra documents to spare. She was stopped while near-sprinting through the hallways.

“Well, well, well,” an even snootier voice drawled, like some villainous caricature. “If it isn’t the prodigy of the Arcane Institute.”

Isabelle grit her teeth as Cyrus Loxias’ smug face came into view. His army of bootlickers sneered at the side of the tanned mage. Cyrus swept his sea-bleached hair out of his eyes, white teeth glimmering. No doubt his wealthy gentry family had paid handsomely for some dentist or other.

Normally, Isabelle appreciated Ancient’s lesser focus on its aristocracy. It was nice to walk amongst others without having her clan’s name creating an uncomfortable distance. This, however, meant that spoiled twats like Loxias had few qualms about nettling her.

“What do you want, Loxias?” Isabelle growled. His cologne was overwhelming, making her head spin. “I don’t have time for this.”

“Word on Marble Avenue is that TL’s got the examination scores ready.” That grin grew wider. “It sounds like our little prodigy didn’t make top marks this round. Are you slipping, Tydus?”

“Come talk to me about marks after your family has donated their _third_ addition to the library to keep you enrolled.”

“Aww,” Loxias cooed. “Little noble is angry. Will your lord father be hearing about this?”

“No. He’s dead.”

Isabelle stomped past them angrily, making sure to bare her fangs. Fierce satisfaction coursed through her at their surprised and almost fearful faces. Most vampires in this region relied on synthetic or animal blood for sustenance, but Isabelle felt petty joy at reminding Loxias’ posse about her people’s age-old source.

She stopped outside of a large oaken door, delivering two knocks before letting herself into the sequestered office. Professor Adriel Thompson-Lee – known as TL by a majority of his students - glanced up at her sudden appearance. His brows raised in a mix of surprise and amusement.

“Miss Tydus,” he sighed good-naturedly, “it is custom to wait for a response before entering. I could have been doing Remus knows what.”

The werewolf reached over his desk and added another tally to a collection. Isabelle’s pale skin flushed at the gentle reprimand. She shuffled apologetically and seated herself on the chair in front of the professor.

“How can I help you?” TL asked, lifting a cup of coffee. He readjusted his wiry glasses over his golden eyes before drawing the blinds over his window.

Isabelle clicked in appreciation as the office dimmed to a more manageable level. She fiddled with her sleeves, eyes trained on the drinking bird that bobbed happily on TL’s desk. The topics they’d reached in her Modern Mechanical Theory class were baffling, even to her. Isabelle had walked out of what was TL’s most difficult exam thus far with her wrists aching from furiously writing and her heart heavy from glaring at the questions more often than answering them.

Loxias’ taunts had certainly hit their mark.

“I heard you have already graded our examinations,” Isabelle said tentatively. “Might I see mine?”

TL regarded her over his mug before nodding. He pulled out a folder and combed through it with hands wrinkled from years of scholarly work, slipping out one of the thick packets.

“I was going to hand them back during tomorrow’s lecture,” he laughed, “but it appears that my students are more anxious than I anticipated.”

Isabelle flipped through hers rapidly, dismayed at the less-than-stellar mark at the top. It wasn’t a _horrible_ score per-say, but she could have done a lot better. She sighed and hung her head tiredly. _So many sleepless nights, all to get a somewhat above average score._

“Come now,” TL said, “don’t look so glum. It’s an objectively good mark.”

“Not as good as my others.”

Isabelle’s head thumped his desk. The drinking bird wobbled from the force of her vibrations. She watched as it slowly corrected itself, establishing its previous _bend, stand, bend_ motions.

“Science is always changing,” TL comforted, Annexian accent strengthening as he slipped into mentor mode. “I know this topic has not been popular with the class,” _tell me about it_ , “but that is the beauty of academics.”

His eyes grew distant. “Perhaps one day, you will all be masters in these fields. What is modern now will be a thing of the past once your generation discovers more than any of us old folks have ever known.”

Isabelle pouted. “You’re not that old. I’d wager you’re in your late forties or early fifties.”

TL tapped his glasses in amusement and began packing up his personal assets. Isabelle cringed as pens and papers were haphazardly shoved into his briefcase. She took the hint that TL was preparing to vacate his office, neatly concealing her shame within her rucksack.

“You don’t normally leave your office at this time,” Isabelle observed. “Did your schedule change?”

“I’m not sure if I should be flattered or concerned that you know my habits so well,” TL smiled. “Do you remember that I’ll be going on sabbatical once the semester ends?”

Isabelle nodded sadly. She’d been excited to take one of his higher-level classes in her third year, but another professor had been assigned the course in TL’s absence.

“I’ve convinced my husband to join me on my travels,” TL continued. “We’ve finally picked a destination, and we will be purchasing our tickets for the journey later today.”

Isabelle grinned. Professors Adriel and Ludwig Thompson-Lee stood out from their colleagues in that they were wed before teaching at the Arcane Institute. Isabelle had met Professor Ludwig on a handful of occasions – TL was quite possibly her favourite lecturer – but she’d had little cause to take any of his courses.

They also stood out because they were a werewolf-vampire pair. Current monarchs notwithstanding, such matches were few and far-between.

“Where will you be going?” Isabelle inquired, thinking of the countries on the neighbouring continents. “Izanagi? Kunta? Azteca?”

“Much, much closer,” TL replied. “We’ll be visiting my family in the Annex.”

Isabelle was taken aback for a moment, though she realized that it was a logical conclusion. TL was a werewolf from the Annex that had left sometime in his youth to seek better prospects. The war had left him with few ways to return. He’d eventually settled in Sanguis and married Ludwig, before anti-werewolf ideals hit their peak in the east. Isabelle was not sure how they’d both ended up teaching in Courtmere, but she was glad for it either way.

“That is wonderful news!” Isabelle said, thrilled on his behalf. “I’ve a friend from the Annex. He lives in the capital now, but he’s told me a bit about it.”

TL hummed. “It’s been over two decades since I was last home. I imagine so much would have changed. Ludwig is apprehensive.” He exhaled contemplatively. “I don’t blame him. The Annex has never been the ideal place for vampires, doubly so after the last Era.”

“We are in a new Era,” Isabelle offered. “Perhaps things have changed for the better. And,” she shrugged, “there is always Ancient if things don’t work out.”

TL chuckled at her blunt tone. They stepped out into the hallways once TL had gathered everything. He shut his door with a firm hand, the sound of the wood mingling with everyone’s voices and footsteps. Isabelle waited for him as he locked it.

“You may be correct,” TL said. “It’s been a pleasure as always, Miss Tydus. Take care, and don’t stress over one exam. There will certainly be more.”

He slipped a hat over his head and tipped it at Isabelle with a teasing look. She waved at him as he headed off in the direction of his husband’s academic building. Once he’d vanished in the crowd, Isabelle turned and made her way outside.

She had other lectures to attend, and – the thought filled her with nervous excitement - a rare meeting with a friend.

\---

_Bella ran through the woods, her messy bun loosening as she tripped over the gnarled roots. She landed with a heavy thud. Edmund was just a shade in her quickly dimming field of vision. She reached out for him with a shaky hand._

_“Edmund!” Bella called. “Please, come back to me!”_

_The ghost of Edmund turned to her, cerulean orbs replaced by a crimson mire._

_“I’m sorry, Bella,” he said, voice heavy with grief. “I’m bad for you – I hurt you. I’m never coming back.”_

_“I didn’t mind. Please, Edmund! You are hurting me by leaving!”_

_Edmund sighed and looked away. He faded in a bright cadence of light. Before he was completely lost, Bella heard him whisper one final thing._

_“You’ve hurt me too, Bella. Loving you was the greatest pain I’ve ever known.”_

Isabelle snickered with each page she flipped. The other people in her train carriage turned to her briefly before returning to their own reading materials. One man, another vampire, shook his newspaper indignantly. On the cover was a photograph of Sven Gali, a cleric that had been making big waves in Ancient. He’d been hosting scattered gatherings throughout the region, although Isabelle never paid him any mind.

Courtmere unfolded around the train as it chugged languidly through the city. Isabelle had caught one heading downtown, some distance away from her dormitory. She could have driven there, admittedly, but Isabelle had not been in the mood to operate a vehicle. At the very least, this gave her time to catch up on her novel.

“Fucking brownliners,” the vampire man hissed.

Isabelle’s head rose sharply at the term. She looked outside on instinct, her heart dropping when she saw another train running on the track adjacent to hers. A brown line ran across the external faces of the crowded carriages.

Inside were people of more races than Isabelle could name. None of them were Eurydicean.

Trains in Ancient operated using the line system, with each vessel bearing a coloured line denoting where it originated from. Isabelle’s carriage bore the blue stripe of Courtmere and other cities in the province. The brown stripe was indicative of Southedge, a sea-facing city that was quickly becoming the largest entry point for various immigrants to Eurydice.

Isabelle’s grip on her book tightened as the other vampire kept throwing out complaints. She much preferred Ancient to Sanguis, but both regions were not without their faults. The surge of newcomers to the kingdom had seen discontent amongst the southern natives. With so many people beginning their new life on Orpheus in Southedge, Ancient residents had taken to derogatorily referring to them as ‘brownliners’.

She glanced at the brownline train once more. A dark-skinned woman with dragon-like scales and horns clutched a baby at her back, wrapped in brightly-patterned garments.

“They come from other countries then complain that everything is different,” the loudmouth said. “If they don’t like Eurydice, they are free to hop aboard whichever boats they travelled on and turn right back.”

Two werewolves exchanged a look as the vampire man continued ranting. Others either nodded along with his words or creased their brows, though Isabelle suspected it was more from irritation at the disruption rather than disagreement.

“It is bad enough that there are so many _halfies_ taking over Ancient,” the man said. “Now all of these people are going to introduce more.”

Isabelle bristled at the harsh term for hybrids. She furiously prepared an argument, pausing only when another vampire spoke out in support of the aggravating man.

“The kingdom was strongest during Ambition,” they said, “Gold Era be damned. Back before the Caedises came and started opening up the borders.”

Their train lurched to a stop. Isabelle blinked when she realized they’d reached the last station. The brownline train continued on its way, taking the immigrants to whichever places they would call home. She watched as it vanished into an upcoming tunnel.

Isabelle grit her teeth as the two vampires melted in with the patrons entering and departing their carriages. She fumed in a mixture of anger and guilt, both from their words and from her own inaction. Sometimes, Isabelle grew so accustomed to the Arcane Institute’s racially variegated population that she forgot that not all of Ancient was so accepting.

She quickly navigated her way through the train station and stepped out into the bustling hub. Isabelle adjusted the large sunhat she wore – a style popular with Ancienti vampires – and walked through the familiar sidewalks along the off-white buildings. More than a few of them deviated from the neoclassical pattern, with brightly-coloured architecture standing proudly along street corners. Vehicles sped past Isabelle, loud honks filling the air from all of the impatient drivers.

 _Ancient is so different from Sanguis,_ Isabelle thought with a smile. _Whereas Starkhall is dark and shrouded, Courtmere feels warm and alive._

Isabelle turned into an alley, stopping by the café that she favoured. It was smaller than its competitors, easy to miss if one did not know it was there. _Nice and quiet. Just the way I like it._

A bell rung cheerfully as Isabelle pushed the door open. She seated herself in her preferred chair: the round one next to the window, not too dark but hidden from direct sunlight. Her novel was flipped to where she’d stopped, and Isabelle was once again engrossed in whichever mad scheme Bella and Edmund were getting up to.

“I hope I haven’t kept you waiting,” a lovely voice said.

Isabelle drew her gaze away with a short jump. Galilahi Diamandis smiled down at her, freckles fanning out over her dimpled cheeks. Twin braids rested along that angular face, honey eyes twinkling in amusement. Her pink sundress revealed freckles interspersed along her shoulders. Galilahi was much more beautiful in person. Specula did not do her justice.

“H-hey, Galilahi,” Isabelle squeaked. “Not at all. I haven’t been here long.” She smiled. “Thank you for riding out from Haguecourt. It’s been a while since I’ve seen you.”

“I won’t say no to free coffee!”

Galilahi sat down, pulling several books and magazines out from her bag. Isabelle regarded a few of their covers in mild interest, noting that most of them were from years gone by. Galilahi was studying art at the smaller – but no less prestigious, Isabelle scolded herself – Haguecourt College. It was quite common for the werewolf to cut up and save pages from her favourite issues.

One from _Hill Magazine_ caught Isabelle’s attention. On its front cover was the royal wedding. Quill and Ayden Caedis stood side by side, white and black attire contrasting. The photographer had snapped the shot as the new couple shared a kiss. It was strange to see it printed on paper, as Isabelle had _been_ in the Iron Cathedral when it happened. She idly scanned the blurred edges of the image for any familiar faces, but the Sovereign and Potentate had clearly been the focus of the lens.

A waiter soon came to take their orders. Despite her earlier claim, Galilahi requested a chocolate milkshake instead of coffee. Isabelle decided to follow her example, though she took a bloodshake for herself. Galilahi eyed the red drink sceptically as Isabelle tucked in. It was made with animal blood, and Isabelle was enjoying the break from vampiric fruits.

“What have you been up to this semester?” Isabelle asked after a peaceful silence.

“I’m working on a new collage,” Galilahi answered, pulling out a folder. “I found some preserved prints from the Gray and War Eras. Here, look.”

Several small photographs were neatly arranged on their table, far away from the condensation on their beverages. Isabelle combed through them with delicate fingers. Many showed burning buildings with tall plumes of smoke reaching up into the air. A few featured people – the most striking one Isabelle saw was a Shifted werewolf handing a moonflower to an armoured Garrison soldier. She did not know the precise date for each one, but she’d wager they were taken sometime after Potentate Lilith von Drake’s death.

There was one with Quill, too. Holding the crown jewels, golden eyes seemingly blazing through the grayscale photograph as his coronation made history. Isabelle smiled softly at the determination in her friend’s eyes.

“These are wonderful,” Isabelle said. “Contact me the second your new collage is assembled. I want to be the first person that sees them.”

Galilahi's freckles crinkled with her cheeks as she bowed from her seat. “Yes, my lady.”

They both giggled, made eye contact, and divulged into more fits. Isabelle took a sip of her bloodshake, studying Galilahi’s hands as the she fixed one of her braids. Fangs bit her lips as Isabelle worked up the courage to reveal the real reason she’d asked Galilahi to drop by Courtmere.

“How has _your_ semester been?” Galilahi asked, swirling her straw around her sweet confection.

“Not as pleasant as the last one, I’m afraid. Though,” Isabelle plucked a cherry into her mouth, “I’ve finally started going through those texts from Kurama University.”

“Yeah?” Galilahi teased. “Have you cracked the secret code of magic yet?”

“I’m getting there. It’s slow-going work, however. All of the dates are written in the Common Calendar instead of the Eurydicean one. I have to keep a guide so I know precisely when each discovery was made.”

Galilahi cocked her head. “What is the difference?”

“Common is superior,” Isabelle shrugged. “Our Era system is stupid. It would be better if the lengths had some degree of consistency, instead of the Grand Seer just announcing a new one when the time feels right.” She sighed. “I don’t know what goes into declaring Eras – obviously there is some regulation, otherwise Eurydice would have had a lot more – but still.”

“And this year translates to…?”

Isabelle paused, mentally envisioning the reference she had drawn up for her research. She quickly did the math. Before the creation of the Common Calendar, each corner of the world had maintained its own individualized time-keeping method. They’d eventually gotten together and picked a damn date as a commonality, separating events into Common Time and Before Common Time. Eurydice still needed a while to think, it seemed.

“I believe it is … 919 CT,” Isabelle said, tapping her chin.

Galilahi hummed placidly. She sorted through the scattered photographs, putting them into groups. Isabelle was not certain of the logic behind her partitioning. She returned to chewing her lip and nervously tapping her feet.

“Hey, Galilahi,” Isabelle said.

“Hey, Isabelle.”

Her nerves intensified. “You know the old stadium by Seventh Avenue? Where they used to host Cyran Tourneys?”

“It sounds familiar. What about it?”

Isabelle’s feet drew circles on the wooden floor. “It’s been converted into an outdoor theatre, and they play a film at the end of each week. You enjoy art, and cinema is included within the artistic fields. Not to assume that you like _all_ art because of that! I just-” _rambling, Isabelle. You’re rambling!_ “It’s a super informal thing. I know this is short notice, but I was wondering if … if you’d like to go and see it with me?”

Galilahi smirked. “Was your offer of coffee just to butter me up?”

A startled squeak. “N-no! I-”

“Relax, Bells.” Her smirk softened into her usual smile. “I’d love to.”

Isabelle’s heart fluttered at those words. She made to take a sip from her bloodshake – to hide her embarrassment – but her mouth completely missed the straw. Isabelle’s pale face flushed a brilliant red as Galilahi’s eyes brightened mirthfully.

 _So, this is what it feels like to be Ares,_ she thought in mortification.

***

 _How did I find myself here?_ Isabelle wondered, staring at the thick clumps of brown hair that littered her dormitory’s floor. The scissors in her hand shook as she glanced at a mirror. Her reflection looked back at her with wide eyes and shoulder-length hair.

_Oh, right._

The two women had split up after finishing their milkshakes. Galilahi had wanted to stop by a museum while she was in the city, asking Isabelle to leave her with directions to her residence. Isabelle had then caught a swiftest train home, where she’d fretted ever since. She was not normally very preoccupied with her appearance, but this was _Galilahi_. She wanted to look somewhat decent.

Except, her hair had refused to cooperate. So, she’d lifted her scissors and _snipped, snipped, snipped._

 _Why did I do that?_ Isabelle lamented. She clutched her much shorter tresses in her hands, nearly sobbing at the uneven cuts. One side was longer than the other, making her look like quite the character. A knock at her front door caused her to leap into the air like a startled vampire-cat.

“C-coming!” Isabelle called.

She kicked the severed hair out of plain site and opened her door with a wide grin. Galilahi blinked in surprise. Whether from Isabelle’s forced cheerfulness or her newly shorn mane was unclear.

“What a … drastic change,” Galilahi said slowly.

Isabelle rubbed the back of her neck sheepishly. “Yeah,” she said, injecting suaveness into her voice. “I figured it was time for a new look.”

Galilahi’s eyes twinkled. “All that for little old me?” Isabelle stepped aside, finally allowing her into the residence. “Do you have a brush? A little tweaking should complete the look, I should think.”

Isabelle handed her the requested item. She obediently sat down on the stool Galilahi gestured to, beyond ashamed of her impulsiveness. Galilahi combed through her hair gently, and Isabelle blushed at her careful ministrations. It wasn’t long before the werewolf requested a cup of water and Isabelle’s scissors. She delivered them with her head hanging in embarrassment.

“I quite like the new look,” Galilahi offered, dampening the ends of Isabelle’s hair. She trimmed off tiny portions, tutting at the unevenness of it all.

Isabelle watched as her locks crawled farther away from her shoulders, stopping just beneath her chin. Galilahi fiddled with her bangs before finally stepping away with a flourish and a clap. Isabelle regarded her new self critically. Her head felt unusually light, what with it no longer being encumbered by her long strands.

“You’re a miracle worker,” Isabelle breathed.

Galilahi rested her hands on her hips. “I try,” she said. She glanced around the dormitory curiously. “Is it alright if I leave my things at your place? I don’t fancy the thought of lugging my portfolio across the city.”

Isabelle nodded her acquiescence. She noted the time, realizing that the film would be beginning soon. Isabelle grabbed her vehicle’s keys swiftly and gestured to the door.

“Let me know when you are ready,” she said. “Don’t worry about the hair. I’ll clean it up later.”

Galilahi deposited her bag on a couch and dipped into the bathroom. Isabelle waited patiently for her, fiddling with the hem of her red summer dress. She ordinarily preferred trousers and blouses on any given day, but she’d wanted to freshen up her image.

The bathroom door opened, and Galilahi retreated with her twin braids freshly installed. The two of them left the dormitory together, and Isabelle chatted idly with her as she warmed up her vehicle.

It wasn’t long before they were driving down the streets of Courtmere, the hustle and bustle of Ancient’s capital a warm and familiar sight. In the distance loomed the gargantuan House of the Five Faiths, its lights never dimmed from all of the worshippers that flocked to its wide halls. Isabelle drove around one of the many statues of Echolyse.

“If I take a series of left turns,” Isabelle said, “we’d end up near the Temple of the Seer. And,” she pointed to the right, “the Arcane Institute’s main campus is not too far from here. Following the Gold Road past the Aurum Bank will take you there with few interruptions.”

Galilahi tapped the dashboard in a musical rhythm. “Bells,” she laughed, “I’ve been to Courtmere before.”

“Oh, right. I-I knew that.”

Isabelle drummed her fingers along the steering wheel. Her eyes drifted to Galilahi, fascinated by the way her eyes blended with the electrical lights. She eventually pulled into the stadium, taking care to avoid other automobiles. The north-facing wall had been cut away to allow vehicular traffic, and she circled the dome-like building before finding a spot that was an acceptable distance away from the large screen.

Galilahi hopped out from the passenger seat and returned with snack-laden arms. Isabelle protested, citing that she would have happily paid, but Galilahi waved her off. They sat down together with the windows down, helping themselves to the food as Jade Caraway’s newest piece played out before them.

“Oh, _Echolyse_ ,” Galilahi slapped her face. She glared at the snacks. “I forgot to mention that I needed some prepared with a vampire in mind.”

Isabelle held her hands up placatingly. “It’s fine, really!” she said. “I don’t mind. If anything, it’s a nice culinary experience.”

They spent the rest of the film in pleasant conversation. Isabelle occasionally glanced at what was happening in the film, though Jade Caraway’s genre was not one that she championed. Galilahi would gasp or laugh with each new plot point. Isabelle allowed a small smile to grace her lips as she watched the werewolf.

The stadium erupted into applause as the film reached its conclusion. Isabelle could not quite remember how the lead actress found her way as the empress of the world, but it had been amusing either way. She put her car into reverse, making her way out before the flow of vehicles became unbearably slow.

“Where to next?” Galilahi teased. “I want to get my money’s worth, tour guide.”

Isabelle drove uptown for a moment, letting Galilahi take note of all of the colourful architecture. She soon branched onto the Gold Road, racing out of the dense areas and into the sparser parts. The terrain grew rougher as Isabelle drove onwards. She turned onto a smaller path, climbing the small mountain named Court Outreach that overlooked the city.

Galilahi dismounted once Isabelle idled on a flat plane. The werewolf leaned against the protective barrier, dark hair blowing with the quiet wind. Isabelle joined her, observing the former capital of the Kingdom of Eurydice. Galilahi shivered slightly, prompting Isabelle to dig through her vehicle for the thin jacket she kept handy. A sweet smile was given in thanks.

“Courtmere truly is beautiful,” Galilahi said, resting a cheek in her hand. “Snobbishness aside.”

Isabelle chuckled. “It has its moments I’ll admit, but I’d take it over Starkhall any day.”

The stars glinted across the sky, shining companions for the night’s half-moon. Isabelle relaxed against the railing, her shortened hair feeling odd as it tickled the nape of her neck.

“What is your home like?” Galilahi asked. “I’ve never left Ancient before.”

Isabelle’s grip tightened. “It’s okay,” she replied. “I haven’t really gone back since I started university. Starkhall is…,” she stared at the blurry, far-off lights, “Starkhall. It wasn’t really an ideal place to grow up when I was younger. It’s better now, but...”

“But?”

“But I wouldn’t want to live there again.” Isabelle leaned forward contemplatively. “My parents both died when I was young. I don’t know a lot about either of them, but we must have shared _some _traits.” Her frown melted. “I do know that my mother was more of the quiet type. I like to imagine that she was a reader, like me.”__

_Hyperion would be the best person to ask about the more personal side of our parents – I could read about Enoch and Lenora in some clan lineage book if I really wanted - but I wouldn’t trust a word out of his mouth. If he dislikes them so much, it is probably because they were good people and he is not._

“Enough about me,” Isabelle said. “How about you? If you could go anywhere in Eurydice that wasn’t Ancient, where would you pick?”

Galilahi gave her a considering look. “I’d like to go to the Annex one day.”

“Oh?” _The Annex seems to be a pretty popular place nowadays._

Honey eyes looked to the moon. “The idea of being around millions of other werewolves is appealing. I know there are werewolves here, but it isn’t quite the same. They don’t really care about us the way they do over there.”

Isabelle questioned who ‘they’ were, but her only response was a head shake from Galilahi. They stood together companionably, enjoying the spring air at this elevation. A few people would periodically trudge past as they, too, spent the weekend outside of the metropolitan sites.

“It’s almost a full moon,” Galilahi said absentmindedly. “Sometimes I forget to keep track of it and Transform at an inconvenient time.” She laughed, turning around so that her back faced the city. “I should probably stock up on moonflowers soon. I’ll be stuck in my apartment for half the day once the Transformation hits.”

Isabelle cocked her head. “What happens if you need to run an errand during the full moon? Can’t you just go and do it?”

“If only it were that simple, Bells.” Galilahi scuffed the earth with her shoes. “It’s so stupid that people are afraid of Transformed werewolves. We don’t act any different from normal most of the time.” She gave a long-suffering sigh. “Performing magic and drinking blood are just as strange, yet _we’re_ the ones people steer clear of.”

Isabelle fiddled with her hair. She’d never thought of drinking blood as strange. It was just what vampires _did_. Though, she supposed she could understand why the idea of it made others balk. She’d certainly used it to her advantage on a few occasions.

“What are you thinking so hard about?”

Isabelle blinked. “Ah … nothing.”

Footsteps sounded from up the hill as a small group of vampires toddled down Court Outreach. Their louds voices carried over to them, eyes shining from the light of the overhead streetlamps. They came close enough that Isabelle could make out individual faces if she squinted. Despite being of a similar age to them, none were people that she knew.

Isabelle tracked their journey with amusement. She glanced at Galilahi with some joke about the staggering group resting on her tongue. Galilahi smirked back at her in tandem. Both of their good moods evaporated as one vampire man landed his foul eyes on Galilahi.

“Skinwalker!” he called.

The group burst out in fits of jeers and hoots. Galilahi’s eyes widened, her hands balling into fists at her side. Isabelle moved without thinking, turning to face the leering man.

“What did you just call me?” Galilahi growled. Her claws sharpened, digging into her palms. She was an interesting sight, standing there in a pink skirt and a borrowed jacket.

“You heard me,” the man sneered. “Gonna bite me, skinwalker? Be warned – I bite back.”

His posse swarmed around him protectively. Isabelle stepped in front of Galilahi, satisfied at the flash of surprise on the man’s face. She likely did not look any more threatening than her friend, what with her own red sundress, but she’d already been silent once that day. It would not happen again.

“Would you like to repeat that?” Isabelle hissed. “I don’t think I heard it properly.”

“Isabelle,” Galilahi said warily. “It’s fine. Let’s just go. I don’t want any trouble.”

“I won’t get in trouble.” She directed a classic Tydus scowl at the man. “Well? Have you gone mute all of a sudden?”

He held two hands up in surrender. “Relax, lady. Just having a bit of sport.” Red eyes peered surreptitiously at Isabelle’s legs. “Why don’t you ditch that skinnie and come with us? I know a joint with the best blood. The people there practically throw themselves at any vamp they see.”

“Keep talking.”

She put on her slyest facade, sauntering towards him with slow and purposeful steps. Isabelle stopped just short of his haughty face, taking in his features. Tanned skin, red eyes, blond hair with visibly brown roots. A fine nose, straight and without flaws. His fangs glinted as he watched Isabelle’s approach.

Isabelle smiled, reared her fist back, and punched that pretty little nose. The _crack!_ that rang through the air was like a temple symphony to a repentant sinner.

Without missing a beat, Isabelle spun on her heels and raced towards Galilahi. She grabbed her wrist before the group could react, dragging them both towards her parked vehicle. Galilahi snapped out of her gaze and swiftly slotted herself into the passenger seat.

Isabelle was glad that she’d kept the automobile on standby instead of outright shutting off the engine. She reversed after a few seconds of warming up, swerving around the shrieking vampires. The adrenaline in her veins made her ignore the pain in her knuckles, as well as the blood decorating them.

Court Outreach diminished behind her as she sped down the hill. Enraged shouts soon gave way to honks as she took several detours onto the main road. She paused at a traffic light, breathing heavily from her sudden physical exertion. Beside her, Galilahi was not faring much better.

“That … I … wow!” Galilahi guffawed, unable to contain herself.

Isabelle shook her wrist out, wrinkling her nose at its state. She did not want to leave the man’s blood on her skin, but the thought of wiping it off on her dress was repulsive. Vampire blood was thicker and darker than most, and it was an absolute nightmare to get out of clothing. _An absolute nightmare._

“Gods,” Isabelle moaned. “I can’t believe I just did that.”

“That was amazing!”

Isabelle swallowed, flushing at the awe in Galilahi’s eyes. She swapped her hands on the steering wheel, gliding the clean one through her hair. A cringe overcame her as she realized how far off the rails the day had gone.

“What a day today has been,” Isabelle sighed.

“You’re so brave,” Galilahi joked.

“Brave? No way. I pass by a group of teenagers on the sidewalks and immediately feel intimidated. This is a one-time thing.”

Galilahi leaned over with a subtle mischievousness in her eyes. Isabelle nearly drove into oncoming traffic as she felt soft lips pressing against her cheeks.

“My knight in shining armor,” Galilahi whispered. She repositioned herself in her seat, giggling at the dumbstruck look on Isabelle’s face.

Isabelle forced her eyes back onto the road with much effort. Warmth swept through her entire body, as if she’d taken a long soak in an Annexian hot spring. Her hand dusted over the graced cheek as her face grew pinker than Galilahi’s skirt. They drove quietly through the city like this, the moon a winking eye in the sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spotlight: Eastern Assault
> 
> In 12 War, a surprise attack by werewolves took place in Sanguis. The attackers bore the banner of the Insurgency, though whether they were Annexian renegades or Sanguin sympathizers was unclear to law officials. It led to the mistrust of werewolves across Sanguis and the Ironhill, as people began to suspect their werewolf neighbors of secretly supporting the Insurgents. Coven and Ancient soon saw an influx of werewolves as civil persecution went on the rise. The close proximity of the Eastern Assault to the Redfyre Palace was of great concern to the crown, eventually prompting Damien Caedis to launch the fatal Siege of Tyrant’s March.  
> Flying the banner of the First Sovereign (also known as the crown’s banner) soon became a way of showing support for the royal family. Many werewolves living outside of the Annex would hang this banner to indicate their non-Insurgent allegiances, but most did it to avoid being taken in for questioning or attacked by their neighbors. It did not always work.


	32. Shattering The Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Look around, look around, at how lucky we are to be alive right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Tydus girls' first reaction to a man that pisses them off is to beat him up. Queens. Also, I love how none of the Tydus kids have a sense of personal space. They just be walking into peoples’ areas with no concern whatsoever. They're all so dramatic and absolutely valid.

Quill Lycan  
The Ironhill, 1 Cardinal

***

There were so many dreams – stranger than even the more obscure novels Quill had read in Beowulf Tower. They layered over each other like fresh snowfall atop an old snowstorm, piling up until Quill could not tell which direction was which. Darkness shrouded his every move, colder than even the worst nights spent camping in Lunares’ many forests. 

The thought of Lunares made his heart clench tighter than his aching throat. Quill reached for the twisting spires of his home, but they were always just out of arm’s length. He closed his eyes as they faded once again, falling into the emerald cage of his prison. 

Quill slept. He slept, and he dreamt.

He stood in a field of roses, watching as they blackened under the intensity of a raging fire. Their thorns sliced his skin as he tried to smother the flames. Scarlet rubies poured from the wounds they inflicted. A lone tower sat in the distance, consumed by the flames. Its thick walls cracked, bits and pieces of brick hurtling towards the ground. 

Quill blinked, and the inferno was overcome by a blizzard. The roses in his hands were gone, replaced by pale white flowers. Snow was normally a comfort to him, but there was too much. Quill trudged through the white blankets, clutching the fragile petals tightly to himself, but he could not escape. 

_I can’t breathe,_ Quill thought. _Something is crushing me_. 

The dreams vanished just as quickly as they manifested. Quill soon floated in an empty expanse, unsure of where he was. His hands flew to his throat, gasping as a snake wound its way around his neck. No matter how hard he resisted, the serpent refused to release him. Quill gave up after nearly an eternity, allowing the beast to do with him what it pleased. 

A wolf howled as his eyes fluttered closed. Somehow, Quill knew that she was searching for her lost pups. She howled and howled, but it was never enough. 

Quill glanced up, staring at the full moon. Despite its silver light, Quill felt himself drifting deeper into the inky night. He held his hands out towards it, but it was always too far away. Everything was so far away. 

The dullness was interrupted by flashes of red. Quill welcomed them with open arms, glad for anything that chased away the green-tinged darkness at the edge of his vision. 

\---

Blue light filled his view. It was good; familiar. He shrugged off whichever materials were laying against his skin – they were soft, unbearably so – and followed after the retreating colour. For a moment Quill was back in the blizzard, walking forward but never moving. 

His haphazard attempts found him standing within a series of rooms. Quill did not know where they all led, and so he leaned on the walls and stumbled along a seemingly endless corridor. 

_Is this a dream?_ he wondered, peering at his bleary surroundings. 

Two strong hands seized him, and Quill exhaled as he was lifted into the air. He fought back with all his might, but his attacks made nary a mark on his assailant. Footsteps echoed as he was carried through the corridor – _where am I?_ – and back into a dimly-lit room. 

_You are not quite ready yet,_ a deep voice said. Quill clung to it, desperate for any signs of life other than him. Was he even alive? 

The restrictive materials once again rested atop his body. Quill struggled, relaxing only when he felt no more energy in his bones. Wavering voices emanated from his periphery. Their hushed words were like the hissing of vipers. Quill wanted to respond – to tell them that he could not hear what they were saying – but his tongue was an immovable weight in his mouth. 

_Go back to sleep,_ the person said. Quill shut his eyes obediently and slept. 

The full moon waited for him as if he’d never left. It was much larger this time, closer than it had ever been. If Quill wished, he could brush his fingers on its cratered surface. A tentative hand was extended towards the- 

He winced as fierce, golden light forced the blackness away. Quill had nowhere to hide from the sun’s oppressive rays as it soared across the sky like a chariot. His arms blocked his eyes in defence as the light grew unbearable. He squinted upwards after adjusting, gaping at what he saw. 

The sun, shattering the moon. 

A sob escaped him as pieces of the moon cascaded down. He _needed_ the moon. It was a gift – Remus had given it to his chosen people. Why did the sun take it away? Heavy tears leaked from Quill’s eyes as pain coursed through his chest. If the moon died, he would die with it. Quill knelt amongst the fading shards, gasping for breath. 

A gentle presence enveloped him, the scent of blood and flowers entering his nostrils. Quill melted into their embrace. It was as if he’d landed on a cloud of silver, floating through the air as the sun left the broken moon in its wake. 

_Wake up,_ the presence whispered. _You cannot stay here. It is time to go back._

 _I want to stay with you,_ Quill protested. His voice sounded different to his own ears. Foreign.

 _One day. For now, you must return._ Deep blue rays surrounded him. Quill basked in their warmth. _They are waiting for you. Wake up._

So, he did. 

***

Quill woke with a start, hands instinctively heading for his throat. The feeling of his skin met him, though there were more lines and ridges than he remembered. Blunt fingers traversed along his collarbones, but the cool metal of the necklace was nowhere to be seen. 

He splayed his hands out, furrowing his brows when something felt distinctly _wrong_ about them. He was not given much time to think, however, as a gasp to his left drew his attention. Quill turned his head sharply, blinking when another person stared back at him in shock. They were gone before he could speak, their shouts and hollers carrying along the room. 

Quill sucked in a breath. He was … he was in his bedchambers. The Potentate’s – his – wing. The things that kept _touching_ him were his bedsheets and pillows. He sank into them gently, pulling the quilt against himself. The curtains were drawn, and he found the darkness oppressive. 

The urge to sleep overcame him as several people flooded his space. Quill took in his surroundings, eyes widening when many memories hit him at once. _Cypresses. The Celestial Festival. Apollo. The necklace. Ayden._

“How are you feeling, Your Grace?” someone asked kindly. 

Quill gazed at the man for a few seconds, trying to remember his name. _Doctor Hubert Tucker. The one who prepares my moonpotion._

“Thirsty,” Quill rasped. 

There was much movement, and a cup of water was swiftly procured for him. Quill took it gratefully, downing the cool liquid in three gulps. He motioned for more, and his request was granted. Doctor Tucker shook his head as Quill greedily drank his fill, stopping him with a steady hand. 

“Do not drink so quickly,” he said. “You will upset your belly.” 

Quill slowed down at his chiding, sipping the remaining mouthfuls. The cup wobbled as he grasped it within his palms. Tucker gave instructions to the gathered people, but Quill stayed focused on the sights and sounds around him. 

_I am warm. There are birds chirping outside. This water is cold. My room smells like medicine. I am warm. There are birds-_

“It is good to see you awake, Your Grace.” 

Quill tensed at the baritone, gaping at a blue-skinned man with wickedly curved horns. He’d never thought he’d see this person again anywhere in Eurydice, let alone in his bedchambers. His head cocked in confusion as Thorfinn Ragnarsson appeared beside him. 

“Lord Thorfinn?” Quill hesitated. He cleared his throat and tried again. “What are you doing here?” 

Thorfinn took a seat near Quill’s bed, legs crossing elegantly. His dark eyes studied Quill with the same strange curiosity he’d seen at his coronation. Even while they were both seated, Thorfinn still towered over him. Quill anxiously unsheathed his claws, frowning when there was no reaction. 

“I was summoned to court,” Thorfinn explained, “to aid in your treatment after the attempt on your life. You’d been unconscious for a bit of time before I returned to the capital.” A pleasantly neutral smile graced his face. “Lady Tydus caught me at an excellent moment. I was not long for Eurydice.”

“I’m glad my assassination worked with your schedule,” Quill said, rubbing his eyes. 

Thorfinn chuckled at his dry statement. Both of their gazes found Tucker as the doctor continued examining Quill. A few attendants were sent out with orders that Quill scarcely paid attention to. He shifted in discomfort as his thin clothing clung to him. His mouth felt like someone had taken an armful of cotton and shoved it between his teeth.

 _I feel like crap,_ Quill thought. _I need a bath._

He made this request. An attendant soon returned from elsewhere in his wing, informing him of the bath that was drawn for him. Quill stood from his partially-seated position, legs wobbling at the pressure. Thorfinn steadied his shaky gait, only releasing Quill when he was no longer at risk of collapsing onto the ground. 

Tucker tutted worriedly. Two of his attendants accompanied Quill to his bathroom, much to his chagrin. Their names were Jaeger and Grier, two elves from the Ironhill. Quill could not very well dismiss them – even he did not trust himself not to accidentally drown. The realization that someone would have taken care of him while he was unconscious was mortifying, to say the least.

Jaeger and Grier stripped him with expert fingers, neatly placing the clothes away so that they could be laundered. Quill awkwardly dropped down into the tub, unused to his staff seeing him unclothed. His muscles relaxed as the hot water and fragrant oils surrounded him. Quill sighed blissfully, hugging his knees. 

Grier waved a hand, beckoning a stream of water towards herself in one fluid motion. She stood behind Quill, letting the glob trickle gently along his upper body. She repeated this again and again as Jaeger scrubbed him clean. Quill wrinkled his nose at the sensations. 

“We thank the five that you are finally well, Your Grace,” Grier said softly. She drenched his hair with the perfumed water. “The palace has been quite the gloomy place.” 

Quill hummed peacefully as she massaged his scalp. “It is good to be back.” Vague images came to him, slipping in and out of his mind like the water he sat in. “What happened, do you know? After the Celestial Festival?” 

“Much.” Jaeger towelled Quill’s hair dry and began combing the damp locks. “It was a mess as soon you returned. The healers had you brought here, and we did our best to attend to you after it was deemed safe.” 

Grier nodded. “Then Lord Tor-Thor … the blue man came to the palace. I am not quite sure what he did, but you woke up soon after.” She gave a weak laugh. “Technically, you woke multiple times. This is the longest you have been awake thus far.” 

“I see,” Quill smiled diplomatically. “Thank you for tending to me, both of you.”

They beamed at him in return. Quill stepped out of the tub once he was done, flushing slightly as Jaeger wiped him down. Grier procured a simple black robe once they were done, bestowing the satin garment onto Quill. 

He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror as they fussed over him. Scars lined his neck and collarbones. They were not very noticeable against his olive skin, but one could see them from a close-enough distance. The greatest oddity was the dark insignia over his heart. Quill traced its pattern, fascinated as to how it got there. 

After a few more bodily necessities, Quill padded back to his chambers. 

Thorfinn remained, though Tucker seemed to have left. Quill politely acknowledged him once again, choosing to stand near his bed rather than climb into it. He did not feel like laying down - he imagined he’d been spent much time doing so. 

A number of minutes passed as they talked back and forth, Thorfinn making inquiries and Quill doing his best to answer them. There really was not much he could recall beyond the pain of his own claws and the chokehold of the necklace. 

_The necklace. Where is it?_ Quill wondered. A hand trailed across his neck as he contemplated asking Thorfinn. _Would he know?_

His thoughts were interrupted as the doors to his chambers flew open. Quill jumped in surprise as he anticipated even more people entered his room. He could not remember a time when more than three people were within his space after he’d moved his belongings to this level. 

Quill hid his hands within the sleeves of the robe and faced the newcomers, preparing to shoulder an avalanche of questions. 

Ayden led the vanguard, pausing as he crossed the boundary of the corridor. Quill took in his features, perplexed. Ayden’s hair was not _unkempt_ , per say, but it was not as neat as it always was. The Sovereign’s clothes were fairly rumpled, as if he’d spent a long night tossing and turning. Ayden in any state of disarray was a decidedly alien concept to Quill.

His husband had also … grown a beard? Quill’s brows furrowed. No, he’d say it was more stubble than beard. _Regardless, I’ve never seen him be anything other than clean-shaven._

Quill watched as Ayden approached him like one would a wounded animal. Quill stood still, unsure of how to react. His breath hitched when Ayden stopped just shy of him. He fiddled with his sleeves as red eyes mapped his body before landing on his face. A pale hand caressed his cheek, and Quill idly took note of the pink mar atop Ayden’s palm. 

“Hi,” Quill tried, hoping to break the sudden tension. 

Ayden released a shuddering breath. “You almost died,” he said, “and _that_ is the first thing you say?” His gaze was intense as he reverently cupped Quill’s cheek. 

Quill swallowed. “I’ve said some other stuff,” he offered. Golden eyes landed on the spectators as they poked their heads into his wing. “I did not realize that I would have so many guests. I’d have woken up earlier.” 

Ayden’s expression was a mix between amused, bewildered, and relieved. Quill grunted as he was pulled into a fierce embrace. Ayden’s arms wrapped around him tightly, his body quivering as he manhandled the werewolf. Quill’s own arms patted the vampire’s broad back as Ayden placed a palm against Quill’s chest. 

“What are you doing?” Quill squeaked, embarrassed by the number of octaves his voice had risen.

“I’m feeling your heartbeat.” Ayden’s grip grew stronger, one hand carding through Quill’s hair. “I was certain that it would stop at any moment.” Ayden practically squeezed him. “I’m sorry. Give me a minute.” 

Quill blushed as every pair of eyes shot towards them. “Take all of the time you need.” 

Ayden eventually released his death grip, though Quill was not completely free. He did not mind. Quill buried his nose into Ayden’s shoulder, hiding his face from the onlookers. Ayden was a solid presence around him, his cool body offsetting Quill’s warmth. 

\---

The next few days were a blur of bedrest and well-wishers. Quill was taken aback by how _concerned_ everyone was for his wellbeing. Ayden in particular seemed to dog his every step, showing up in Quill’s chambers multiple times per day. Quill would be lying if he claimed to dislike the Sovereign’s fervent devotion to his mission of making sure that he was resting. 

“Can I have one of those little bells?” Quill teased as Ayden came around for the usual afternoon check-in. “The ones that people ring when they need something?” 

Ayden paused as he prepared a cup of tea for Quill. He’d taken to assisting Quill with odd tasks such as this. It was nice, Quill decided. The vampire donned a small smile as he resumed pouring the brown liquid, adding the amount of sugar cubes that Quill favoured. Quill delicately collected the cup and saucer, holding them in his lap and breathing in the sweet scent. 

“Try screaming really loudly,” Arion said. He sat in one of Quill’s chaises, having accompanied Ayden on today’s visit. “Someone will hear you eventually.” 

Quill sipped his tea with a playful look. “Are you sure about that? That plan did not quite work in Lesser Ironhill.” 

Ayden shuffled, looking pained. “You weren’t particularly loud,” he murmured. 

“My apologies. I’ll definitely be louder during my next assassination.” 

“Enough with the gallows humour,” Arion snickered as Ayden cringed. “That is Ayden’s trademark. You can’t both do it.” 

Elf and werewolf chortled, entertained by Ayden’s grimace. Quill was perplexed by how easy it was to joke about what had happened. He felt fine, for the most part, if not a bit tired. 

Except for the nights where he wasn’t fine. 

Thorfinn had informed him of the necklace’s whereabouts after he’d inquired about them. For now, Quill was content to let it remain there. He was not sure he could stomach seeing the emerald. The Chieftain’s explanations as to how it was even removed were vague at best. Quill had pieced together the fact that it was foreign magic, but that was all he’d gathered. 

_Perhaps Ayden could offer a simpler explanation. He’s spent more time around magic-users than I have._

Then, there was Apollo. Quill stared at his rippling reflection in the tea. Ayden had said that Apollo was locked in the Palace’s dungeons without any chances of escape. It did little to ease Quill. He did not know if he could stomach seeing Apollo again, either. Cerberus and the other guards stalked the Potentate’s wing at night should anything unusual happen, and his attendants were always at the ready, but Quill would sometimes wake up and mistake one of his floor-lamps for a man with a handsome glower and sinister intentions.

How Quill wished that there was some distant tower that the crown’s prisoners could be placed instead. It would keep him from jumping at shadows. 

Quill tuned in to Ayden and Arion’s conversation, having been unaware that he’d tapped out at all. Lady Fiona had strolled in at some point, finding a perch near her son. Quill absentmindedly stroked his neck - fingers ghosting along the areas with slightly-raised flesh – and tried to concentrate on Arion’s vivacious narration of their fight with Apollo. 

“You should have seen him,” Arion said, pinching Ayden’s cheeks, “with his jaw unhinged like some serpent.” Ayden slapped him away with a hiss. “It’s been a while since I fought beside vampires. I nearly forgot that they could _do_ that.” 

Quill stared at Ayden incredulously. “Vampires can _unhinge their jaws?_ Can you do it on command?” 

Ayden frowned. “Not with so many people present.” 

“I doubt you’d want to see it,” Arion said sagely. “It is unsettling on the best of the days. Ayden is an absolute drama queen and just _has_ to make it downright horrifying.” 

“Oh, I’m the dramatic one?” Ayden smirked. “Remember Briarlight? Which one of us-”

Arion covered his mouth swiftly, brown eyes widening. “You promised not to speak of that.”

“Promises can be broken,” came Ayden’s muffled response. “Just like the-”

“Truce! Peace! Surrender!” 

“What are you two yapping about?” Fiona sighed. 

Arion gave her a winning grin, the tips of his pointed ears brightening. “Nothing you need concern yourself with in your old age.”

“It seems I allowed the so-called Demons too much free time. I shudder to think of what you did to the Sylph stronghold.”

“Briarlight was fine,” Ayden said, having snuck out of Arion’s hold. “Now, _Arion_ , on the other hand-”

“AYDEN!!”

Fiona rolled her eyes at them. Quill was reminded of the meal they’d all shared the morning of the Celestial Festival. The memory of what happened next dampened his mood somewhat, though Quill kept his pleasant expression constant. Everyone was in high spirits now that he was better, and Quill did not want to prompt any cessations. 

A series of knocks sounded from outside of his room. Quill motioned for Cerberus to open the doors. An instinctual scowl overtook him as Hyperion sauntered in like he owned the place, Reyna and Lady Livingstone in tow. 

“My lord and ladies,” Quill greeted. He kept the petulance out of his voice as Hyperion bowed politely. “I would rise, but it seems I am incapable at the moment.” 

Quill gestured to the cup of tea that was _clearly_ trapping him atop the bed. He brightened up at an excited squealing, gasping as Crescent raced across the bedroom. Quill had the grace to place the teacup in a safe location before the dog leapt into his arms. He laughed as he hugged the wriggling mass of fluff and tongue. 

“Cressie,” Quill breathed. “It’s good to see you.” 

Crescent barked at him, gray fur flying as she made a point of licking his face. Quill stroked her rounded ears, the tension from seldom having a moment’s rest from socialization leaving his shoulders. He turned to Reyna and Lyra once Crescent had settled down in his lap, her great head bouncing as she panted happily. 

“Lord Thorfinn informed me of how essential you both were,” Quill said, “in my recovery.” He ran his hands along Crescent’s neck, dipping his head in the Annexian way. “I … I would like to thank you. I am in your debt.” 

Reyna hummed. “Think nothing of it,” she said. “I was simply doing my duty by the kingdom. The wellbeing of the Potentate is paramount.” 

Lyra inclined her head in agreement. Quill smiled tightly. He highly doubted that neither of them expected something in return. _What_ they would request, however, Quill made no claims as to knowing. 

Ayden shared a strange look with Lyra as green eyes met red. Quill raised a brow when sudden tension filled the atmosphere. The room’s occupants seemed to prepare themselves for something, though Quill was unsure what they were waiting for. The gaps in his knowledge were beginning to eat at him. 

“I am sorry,” Ayden said crisply, “for threatening you, Lady Livingstone.” 

Seconds passed as the woman in question regarded him. “Likewise.” 

_What in the name of all five gods?_ Quill thought. _The Festival was not exceptionally long ago. I’ve missed so much in that time?_

He was distracted as Crescent bounded towards Hyperion. She stopped short of the vampire’s feet, begging for his affection. Quill gaped at her in betrayal. Ayden and Lyra’s bizarre apology slipped his mind as his dog, _his dog_ , flounced over to another man right in front of him.

Hyperion obliged her after a brief hesitation. It was … cute. Quill had never thought of ‘Hyperion’ and ‘cute’ within the same context, and he’d be pleased if it never occurred again. 

“The hell?” Quill mourned. 

Hyperion shrugged. “She’s taken to trailing after me, Your Grace,” he said blandly. “After being informed that you could receive guests, I decided to return her to you.” 

Quill narrowly avoided pouting. “I suppose I owe you a debt as well, Lord Tydus, for watching over her in my absence.” 

_In debt to Reyna and Hyperion? I can practically hear Isabelle fuming as I speak._

The rest of the day was spent in scattered company. The Inner Circle trickled out eventually, leaving Quill in his wing with Crescent and the occasional Cerberus. Quill chatted with the large man whenever he grew bored of bedrest and wandered around, patching the empty spaces of his memory with idle gossip. He’d apparently started sleepwalking at some point before breaking his unconscious state. Cerberus had mentioned how he’d carried a thrashing Quill back to bed, completely unmoved as Quill alternated between amusement and sheepishness.

Once night hit, Ayden resumed his dedicated mission. It was surreal seeing him in his chambers so frequently. If they ever spent a night together, it was because Quill had gone to the Sovereign’s wing and explicitly requested it. Quill could count the number of times Ayden had visited the Potentate’s wing prior to The Incident on his fingers.

Ayden would typically leave after sharing a bed with him. Quill was always uncertain whether he’d stay if asked; he seldom even wished to do so. Tonight, however, he really did not want to be alone. Quill worried his lip as Ayden seemed satisfied that he was _resting_. His husband was already turning the doorknob when he threw caution to the wind. 

“Will you stay with me tonight?” Quill near-whispered.

Ayden glanced back at the quiet plea. He released the metal knob, red eyes softening. 

“As long as you’ll have me.”

***

Quill slid his finger along Ayden’s chest, eyes following the myriad of old scars. Many of them were faded, though a few looked fairly recent. One of Ayden’s arms was protectively draped over Quill’s shoulders; the other sat palm-up on the vampire’s abdomen. Quill shifted his focus to the pink mark on Ayden’s hand. 

“When did you get this?” he questioned, pulling it closer. 

Ayden allowed Quill to manoeuvre him with little protest. “Apollo,” he answered. His eyes were half-lidded, voice slow and deep. Quill melted into the low rumble. “I grabbed his conduit as he was using it.” 

“Why?”

“I needed him restrained.” 

Quill nodded in appeasement. Ayden’s eyes drifted towards Quill’s partially-exposed chest, studying the dark design. Quill subconsciously covered it. Lady Livingstone said that it had been necessary for stabilizing him during the worst of the necklace’s onslaught. As far as she knew, runes would not be removed from the body without skinning the person. As such, Quill’s first tattoo served as a reminder of how close he’d come to dying. 

He unsheathed his claws, once again tutting when nothing happened. A thought crossed his mind as he repeatedly Shifted and Unshifted. Quill held a hand up, recalling that he had not retracted his claws before fainting. The distinct _wrongness_ plaguing him now made sense.

“ _Did someone declaw me?_ ” 

A silence ensued. 

“You were not declawed,” Ayden finally said. “I had them cut your nails as short as possible.” He swallowed, staring at Quill’s neck. “I did not want to see you hurt yourself like that again.”

“I see.”

Ayden watched him, an expression akin to guilt occupying his face. Quill scarcely had the energy to be angry. On any other day, under different circumstances, he would have been enraged at having his body modified while he was unconscious. He instead sighed, letting his hand drop down onto the bed. 

Quill’s eyes roved over Ayden’s cheeks, still not used to seeing the stubble lining them. He poked the prickly hairs, trying to decide which version of Ayden he found more preferable. The rugged appearance was not necessarily a bad look. 

Gentle moonlight coursed through Quill’s room, bathing everything in a silvery glow. He glanced out of his window at the night sky, an odd ache overcoming him. A voice at the back of Quill’s mind vaguely whispered something about the moon, but it quietened almost as soon as it began. 

“Ayden,” Quill said, hoping to take his mind off of the sudden longing in his heart. “What was it like when you first became Sovereign?”

Ayden gave a cross between a laugh and a huff. “The first few years were stressful,” he replied. “One minute, I was stealing naan from Briarlight’s kitchens. The next, there was a crown on my head and two screaming babies in my arms.” 

His eyes grew distant but fond. “Lucien cried so much as a babe. I was tempted to join him at times.” 

_I suppose Ayden would have been young when the twins were born,_ Quill thought, enjoying the vibrations of Ayden’s chest as he talked. _They’re around Luna’s age, I think._

He urged his husband to continue, listening as Ayden recounted one of his meetings with the remnants of Damien Caedis’ Inner Circle. 

“It’s funny,” Ayden sighed. “I was this stupid little teenager in a room full of seasoned war generals, telling them to take avenues they’d never even considered.” He chuckled tiredly. “I always had bags under my eyes from sleepless nights with my children. It was a miracle that any of them even listened to my half-mad orders, let alone enacted them.” 

“I imagine the whole ‘Sovereign’ aspect was extra incentive to obey.” 

“Perhaps.”

They laid together in comfortable silence – at least, Quill thought it was – the sounds of their breathing being all that was heard. Quill caught an occasional whine from the foot of his bed as Crescent dreamed of whatever ran through a sleeping dog’s mind. 

“Quill?” Ayden said. 

“Ayden?”

His husband flipped onto his side such that they faced each other. He took Quill’s smaller hands into his own, running his thumb over the arch of Quill’s wrist. 

“I’m sorry,” Ayden whispered, “for not being more attentive.” 

Quill cocked his head. “You’ve been plenty attentive the last few days.”

“Not now. Back then. In Lesser Ironhill.” Ayden thumb swirled faster the more clipped his sentences became. “You were calling for me, yet I was too busy seething to notice. I could’ve … should’ve…” 

Quill broke their connection, cupping Ayden’s head in his hands. He hovered over him, and Ayden leaned up so that their foreheads touched softly. 

“It’s okay,” Quill comforted. “I was already wearing the necklace by that point. There was nothing you could have done.” He gave a tentative smile. “At least this confirms that you _were_ jealous.” 

Ayden seated himself, dragging Quill along as he did. He inhaled shakily. “You baffle me, Quill Lycan.” 

“There is more where that came from,” Quill joked. His eyes trailed a particularly long scar on Ayden’s torso. “You’ve been a satisfactory handmaiden thus far, I must say. What shall I give you in return?” 

Ayden rested a hand on Quill’s chest, just shy of the rune. “Just keep doing this. I would be selfish to ask for more.” 

“What am I doing?”

“Breathing.”

Quill’s heart fluttered. He pushed Ayden away, fighting the grin that threatened to overtake him. Ayden prevented him from escaping, red eyes mirthful. Quill lightly punched him as butterflies began flying in his belly. 

“Sap,” he said, turning away as he beamed. 

Ayden caught his blow, pulling Quill flush against him. “I am feeling selfish,” he murmured. “Can I kiss you?” 

Quill stopped suddenly, eyes widening. His entire body heated at those words. He and Ayden had rarely kissed since their wedding. Quill could ask Ayden to fuck him, but asking for kisses always made him balk. Ayden patiently waited for his response. 

“You don’t have to ask,” Quill said, growing aware of their position. 

“I want to. I enjoy hearing you say yes.” 

Quill flushed. “Yes, Ayden, you can kiss me.” 

So, he did. Ayden pressed his lips to Quill’s slowly, deepening it only when Quill reciprocated. The fluttering in Quill’s belly grew more fervent as they separated. Ayden resumed after a moment’s breath, taking advantage of Quill’s parted lips. Quill matched his intensity, enamoured by the push and pull between them. 

Quill’s mind wandered to their wedding once more. He’d prepared himself to perform his matrimonial duties to Ayden. Quill had swallowed his fears, worn the serpent-backed outfit that left him terribly exposed, and crawled into the nest of snakes. When told to dance, he did. When told to eat, he did. He’d smiled and charmed to the best of his ability, all the while frightened of what Ayden would do once the kingdom’s eyes were closed. He’d stood in a cold, unfamiliar room in a cold, unfamiliar city. 

Then the cold, unfamiliar man that was to be his husband had walked in. 

They separated a second time. Quill properly straddled Ayden, weaving his arms along his husband’s neck. Ayden’s kiss-swollen lips practically demanded Quill’s attention. 

_So_ , Quill thought, _this is what the Viper demands._

Ayden held Quill’s waist securely as he obliged. Quill took control of their dance; Ayden relinquished it readily. They moved at Quill’s pace, alternating between chaste and passionate. 

How things had changed since that dreary winter’s day. 

Heat pooled in Quill’s belly. It was only natural – he was sitting atop a man he was attracted to. Going further would count as strenuous physical activity – he clearly visualized Doctor Tucker’s quivering moustache as he repeated that phrase – but Quill was not one to consistently play by the rules. 

Though, Quill would not be aggrieved if they spent the night only at each other’s lips. There was something else he felt. Quill could not put it into words. 

_Ayden looks nice in the moonlight,_ Quill thought. 

He kissed Ayden again and again, losing himself in the sensations. Each breath they shared left Quill more and more shattered than the last, until he was nothing but a red-faced pile of mush in Ayden’s lap. If kisses were what the Viper demanded, then who was Quill to deny?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this one was such a vibe because it was just me, my laptop, my water bottle, and a Spotify playlist full of slow love songs. Ahhh, aesthetic. Listen to ''Kiss Me" by Ed Sheeran and "Video Games" by Lana Del Rey for maximum reading experience. Throw in "That Would Be Enough" from Hamilton for added flair.


	33. Master of None

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sakura has my entire heart. She’s easily top five characters for me. I honestly love writing chapters in the Annex so much.  
> Also, Hogwarts AU in spite of everything (thank you, Daniel Radcliffe, for writing HP): Lorelei would be Head Girl (Ravenclaw), Ezra would be Quidditch Captain for Gryffindor, Quill would be Ravenclaw prefect. Viscardi and Luna would be fist-fighting dementors in the Forbidden Forest.

Sakura Wolff  
Westedge, 1 Cardinal

***

The horse whined as Sakura glanced around nervously. Tall trees rose around her, some with tops higher than she could see.

“Two hours, remember?” Sakura said. “Lady Lorelei said to only be gone two hours at most.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Luna replied, rolling her eyes.

Ahead of her, Luna Lycan steadied her mount. Sakura’s heart sped as she leapt off the horse with reckless abandon. Luna fully Shifted as she landed, brown ears twitching round and round. She swiped a wooden bow from the horse’s back, swinging it across her body.

Sakura dismounted her horse gently, fixing her skirts as she did so. Scarwood Hold was some distance away from the rest of Westedge, sitting afore the Wolffs’ – no, the Lycans’ – forest. She cursed herself for not wearing riding clothes. This trip to the woods had been impromptu.

Luna had approached Sakura as she’d sat in the gardens, enjoying the spring air. The youngest Lycan had pouted petulantly, informing her that Lorelei had given her leave to visit the woods on the grounds that Sakura accompanied her. Sakura was not sure why Lorelei would want her of all people minding Luna, but she was glad for a change in scenery.

“Just,” Luna waved a hand, “sit down and play with flowers or something. You do it all the time.” She grinned, sharpened teeth glinting dangerously. “I intend to practice shooting arrows on something other than a stationary target.”

Sakura nodded weakly. Luna padded deeper into the treeline, her hands clumsily preparing an arrow as she walked. Sakura took note of her direction before seating herself at the base of a thick tree. She folded her hands neatly in her lap, listening to the chirping birds and the rush from a river.

The sun sat low in the sky, its rays breaking through the leaves. Sakura closed her eyes as a few of them drifted in the breeze. Near her, the mares started grazing on a patch of grass. Sakura hummed, extracting a sewing kit from the small satchel she’d brought with her. A portion of the dress she’d been working on came next, pale pink fabric slipping through her fingers.

Lorelei had purchased the material for her on an outing to the main city a few weeks ago. The elder werewolf had taken to exploring Westedge, and Sakura would accompany her from time to time. She used to go out into the city every now and then – the streets were not for noble ladies, her mother always said – but Sakura had usually spent her time sewing with Cornelia or reading with Elias. 

Her mother and siblings had been moved to a small holdfast somewhere south, one of which Sakura had not been told. Anything was better than the dungeons. If nothing else, it reminded her to remain docile. She hoped that the transfer was because of her good behaviour.

Sakura sighed as she threaded a needle. With Lorelei spending more time with her these days, Lord Lycan seemed to forget about her existence entirely. The last time she’d had any meaningful conversation with the Governor was when her father was sent to the capital.

Sakura hoped that the Viper would be kind. She knew that Julius would face some measure of punishment, what with his involvement in the war. However, his crimes were less severe than those of her grandfather. If Remus saw fit to intervene, perhaps her father would be sent to some prison. Once she’d proven her loyalty to the Lycans and the crown by extension, Sakura may even be allowed to visit him there.

Nature filled the clearing as Sakura sang while she worked. She’d been learning a new song – the one about Potentate Helen Argent. Lorelei had been correct when she said it followed a similar tune to Potentate Jayne Redwood’s. Whenever Sakura found herself forgetting the words, she would just hum until they returned to her.

_“A heart as cold as ice_

_Beats blue against the snow_

_Fair Helen lived with ghosts_

_Of which we’d never know."_

Sakura became engrossed in her sewing, alternating between songs for Helen and Jayne. She’d sing for Potentates such as Cyrus Goldenbriar and Dmitri Tydus for variety, and there was even one for Selene Caedis. Sakura absentmindedly wondered if Quill Lycan would have a song, too.

_It would be romantic, I think. A sweet song about a war that ends with love. How would it even go? Let’s see…_

She experimented with different lyrics and melodies, giggling at how silly some of them sounded. Perhaps it was for the best that being a singer or musician was not in her future. Sakura held out what she’d sewn for the horses’ inspection, admiring the cotton.

“Is this where I’ve reached?” she asked no one in particular. “Making conversation with horses.”

Her horse blinked large, brown eyes at her demurely. Sakura shook her head and continued sewing.

The tug of the moon at the edge of her senses drew her attention. Sakura glanced around, realizing that it was a tad darker than she’d realized. The moon was not yet out, but she could feel it rising. Dire-wolves like her clan were more in-tune with it, her grandfather liked to boast. The old blood of Lunae Lumen ran strong.

 _Where is Luna?_ Sakura fretted. She debated staying where they’d agreed, but she feared that something might have happened to her. She doubted Lorelei would forgive her if Luna was hurt on her watch.

Sakura folded the dress and deposited it into her satchel. She put away the sewing kit as well, though she held on to the largest needle after a moment’s consideration. Once her items were draped over the horse’s back, Sakura followed the path she’d seen Luna take.

“Luna?” Sakura called, keeping her voice reasonably low. These woods were not quite so familiar to her anymore. “Luna? It has been two hours! We should head back now.”

They’d have to set a hard pace to reach Scarwood before Lorelei’s time limit was up. Sakura hoped that she would not get in trouble for staying out longer than she was allowed. It seemed dubious enough that she was able to leave in the first place. She truly did not want to incur the wrath of her liege lord by doing something wrong.

She summoned Luna again, louder this time.

There was no response. Sakura Shifted so that her sight, hearing, and scenting were more enhanced. It was a step up from her normal state, though Sakura still had to strain somewhat. She was a three-quarter hybrid, after all. Such hybrids resembled the stronger blood, though they kept vestiges of the weaker. As such, her senses were not as powerful as pureblood werewolves.

Sakura wandered around, doing her best to keep track of which way she turned. She called for Luna all the while, steps growing more cautious the longer she went unanswered.

When she saw an arrow lodged deeply into a tree, Sakura exhaled in relief. Luna most likely passed this way, though the silence was eerie. The birds had stopped singing.

A loud screech rent the air. Several more came in its wake, deep and enraged.

Sakura jumped in surprised. She picked up her pace, holding her skirts as she ran towards the anguished noise. Her heart crawled into her throat as she drew closer. She stumbled into a clearing, amber eyes widening in concern.

Luna and Viscardi Lycan faced each other, both fully Shifted. Their hackles were raised aggressively, teeth bared and ears flattened. Harsh words spewed from their mouths. From the looks of it, they’d gotten into some kind of altercation. Their clothes were torn – Luna had four neat gauges across her shoulder, and Viscardi was holding his arm.

“It’s not a big deal!” Luna growled.

“Yes, it is!” Viscardi retorted. “You shot me, Luna!”

“I did not! I was aiming for a squirrel, stupid! It’s not _my_ fault that you decided to show up at that exact moment.”

“How shit does your aim have to be to hit _me_ instead, dumbass?!”

Sakura clutched her hidden needle tightly, looking between the Lycan siblings. She hadn’t known Viscardi would be out here as well, though she admittedly did not keep track of his movements. She balled her fist as they continued arguing, hovering awkwardly in the distance.

“My arrow barely even grazed you, cry-baby.” Luna’s eyes blazed. “Why were you even in the woods alone, Vis?”

“That’s none of your gods-damned business!”

Sakura was taken aback when she noticed the dried tear-marks on Viscardi’s face. She swallowed and steeled herself, stepping out from the safety of her concealed position.

“I…” Her voice waved as their heads snapped towards her. “M-may I ask why you are fighting?”

“No, you may not,” Viscardi hissed.

Luna simply frowned in distaste. Sakura shuffled her feet and tried again.

“The sun will be setting soon,” she said weakly. “It would be best to head back. Lord Viscardi,” his lips pulled back as she addressed him, “perhaps you should come with us.”

Luna and Viscardi spoke simultaneously.

“He can find his own way back,” Luna huffed.

“Don’t tell me what to fucking do!” Viscardi snapped.

Sakura winced at their identical tones. What a sight they must have made. Three werewolves, all standing at a stalemate as they waited for another to make the next move. If Sakura dropped her needle, she’d likely hear the dull sound it would make as it hit the ground.

Rustling from the undergrowth was what broke the silence.

Luna readied her bow at the sudden interruption, cringing as her scratches bled further. Viscardi leaned on his haunches, a low growl rumbling from his throat. Sakura held her sewing needle, unsure of what she’d even do if the intruder drew close enough for her to use it.

A man joined them in the clearing, sitting atop a horse that Sakura did not recognize. At his side were two horses tethered to his own. She blinked when she realized that they were the mounts that she and Luna had ridden.

Sakura relaxed as she recognized Rhys, one of the chamberlains in the Hold. Her shoulders tightened once more when she remembered that he no longer served her clan. Rhys was close to Lord Lycan, and therefore was no longer her family’s trusted ally.

“Sir Rhys?” Sakura questioned, hoping he’d have a better grasp of this situation.

“My, my,” Rhys drawled. “What do we have here?” He gave them an odd look. “Two children of a Governor, as well as his ward.”

“We were…” Sakura trailed off. Lying was not her strong point, especially on the spot.

Rhys smiled toothily despite his commonfolk status. “One of you would fetch a pretty price,” he mused. “All three, however? You could make someone very rich, you know.”

Luna, who had slowly been lowering her weapon when she placed Rhys, resumed her stance in seconds. Viscardi’s growling grew more intense.

“Luckily for you,” Rhys said, “I arrived before some scoundrel could. Come now, children. I’m sure the Lord and Lady will be glad to have their wayward pups returned. Though,” he smirked at Sakura, “I wonder what will happen to you, little wolf. I do not remember you having clearance to leave the Hold.”

“Lady Lorelei granted me permission,” she defended. “I … ask Lady Luna! She told me everything.”

Luna avoided her gaze when Sakura turned to her.

“Luna?” Sakura said, eyes wide. “Tell him, Luna. Tell him what you told me.”

“Lorelei didn’t say anything,” Luna murmured, “because I didn’t ask her.”

“ _What?_ ”

Luna crossed her arms, ears flattening against her head. She did not offer any other words.

”Why would you lie to me?” Sakura asked. “Oh, I’m in so much trouble!” 

”You’ll be fine,” Luna mumbled. “Nothing will happen to you. Stop whining. I’m the one who will be in trouble.” 

”You don’t understand! If your father thinks I tried to escape, my family may very well be in danger!” 

Sakura’s legs started shaking. She stood on wobbly knees, dreading Lord Lycan’s reaction to her unsanctioned excursion outside of Scarwood. Her life was scarcely her own, and she was vividly reminded of the fact that the rest of her family lived under the mercy of another.

 _Would he truly harm them for an unintentional outing?_ Sakura worried.

Her clan would live if she was an ideal prisoner, but she was no ideal prisoner if she could not follow the simple instruction to return by a certain time. Though, it was not even an instruction, was it? She’d been made to sneak out from under Lord Lycan’s nose!

Sakura told herself to be brave as her eyes watered and blood rushed through her ears. She certainly did not feel like the blood of old Lunae Lumen. Right now, she was nothing more than a wolf with its tail between its legs.

***  
Celestina Lycan  
Westedge, 1 Cardinal  
***

Celestina leaned against one of Scarwood Hold’s balconies, observing the people below as they went about their day. Though there was a buzz of activity in the Hold, Celestina noted things were calmer than usual. Behind her, Theron pored over several documents with an irritated expression. He sat at the small table she’d ordered their attendants to bring outside, occasionally preventing sheets of paper from flying with the wind.

She turned and quietly regarded Theron, taking in his features. Her husband did not like to be called ‘pretty’, but he was. He was pretty in their youth, when they’d said their vows on the grounds of Beowulf Tower. He was pretty now, as he rested a finger on his temples.

 _Has it really been so long since I met you?_ Celestina reminisced.

It seemed like only yesterday when a naïve Celestina Mooncrest had travelled to Lupus Crossing with Josephine and Circe, her older sisters. Silas Wolff’s invasion was wildly successful, more so than any of them had anticipated. She’d stared at the Insurgent banners along the Wolfwall – that white wolf proudly flying where the crown once stood – and wondered what plans the Governor of the Annex held for a region that had known nothing but subjugation.

Now the Governor sat before her, but he was not the blood of the Wolffs. He was descended from the Lycans of Beowulf Tower, yet the Annex was his to command. And here she stood, the Lady of Scarwood Hold who gained the title via marriage to a Lycan.

_This is quite the amusing comedy Remus has written._

“What are you thinking about, Tina?” Theron asked.

Celestina smiled. How typical of a soldier to know when they were being watched. “You’re pretty,” she said, calling upon the cheeky girl she’d been.

As expected, Theron’s nose wrinkled in annoyance. She’d nearly forgotten how pleasing it was to tease him. The warmer weather must have been getting into her head, for she sat across from him and schooled her face into a mask of neutrality.

“I am not too old to give you another child,” Celestina said, not letting a drop of humour bleed into her voice. “Remus has blessed us with five, but I shall gladly welcome more. Perhaps a girl, to make it even.”

Theron tore his eyes away from the documents that enraptured him.

“The next child born of a Lycan will be our grandchild,” he responded, equally sombre.

Heartbeats passed. Celestina cracked, chuckling at their antics. Theron smiled, once again resembling that young werewolf with the pretty face and constantly dry look that Lord Anoki Mooncrest had introduced her to decades ago.

“Aye,” Celestina laughed. “Whenever Lorelei gets around to it.”

“We’ll be weathered and toothless at the rate she’s going. Ezra might be the more favourable avenue.”

Celestina hummed. The promise of grandchildren drew her thoughts to her maiden home of Celestial Abbey. It was about time that her father retired from active Clan Head duties. Her eldest sister, Josephine, should be taking over the clan while Lord Anoki enjoyed his twilight years with his own grandchildren.

“I am planning on visiting Moonstone come summer,” Celestina said. “I shall take Viscardi and Luna. It would do them good to visit their cousins.”

Gods allowing, she’d even stop by Lunares to see Ezra. With the war over and both sides honouring the peace, they could finally make progress on his marriage to Blair Lupine.

She sighed. Soon, her three eldest children would be wed. It was a bittersweet feeling as her mind drifted towards Quill. It was a shame that she did not attend his wedding. She could scarcely imagine the loneliness he must feel in the Ironhill. Even Ezra spoke of how odd it was to rule Beowulf Tower, and Lunares was not nearly as distant as the capital was.

Celestina mentally chided herself. She’d been a poor mother of late. Quill normally telephoned her – he must not have known that they’d taken the Wolffs’ specula, and acquired more besides – but she’d not been hearing much from him. She kept meaning to ring her son, but relocating the remaining Wolffs had eaten at her attention.

She’d commandeered a holdfast for Dionysia Wolff and her children. A trip down to the dungeons on a whim had broken her heart. Celestina’s eyes had met Dionysia’s – one mother to another – and she’d known that they could not stay there. The holdfast was still a prison, but at least it was comfortable.

“Enjoy,” Theron said, making no requests to join. “Send my regards to your father and sisters.”

“Would you like to accompany us?”

“Alas, I cannot.”

Celestina tutted, accustomed to such a response. She placed a gentle hand on his, the way she always did when she thought him too engrossed in a task. Theron looked her way after a pause, amber eyes blinking as they readjusted from time spent glaring at ink.

“You’ve been working longer hours than usual,” Celestina remarked. “Have you taken on another region’s governance without my noticing?”

Theron exhaled, his forty-six years catching up to him. “What else would demand my attention,” he muttered, “if not the current thorns in my side? I pull one out, and two more take its place."

“Oh?” Celestina threaded their fingers together. “Enlighten me.”

“The northern provinces,” Theron growled. “They must be dealt with soon, otherwise the Annex will liken me to Julius Wolff for tolerating such defiance. Yet, an overly heavy-handed solution would make me seem no better than Silas.”

Theron pushed black hair streaked with gray out of his eyes. “The Annex has not changed Great Clans since its inception. I’ve now set a precedent, but I mean to be the first and the last.”

Celestina cocked her head as he further described the work that was so important that he’d dragged it to their balcony rendezvous. Her father, a high-ranking official in the Annexian branch of the Garrison before the war, reported some friction as the outsider General Lazarus tried to reinstate crown hold over it. Unusual happenings in Stepes, of which Theron was unsure if they required his or Lord Skyreach’s attention. Celestina listened to it all placidly.

“What of the trade reports?” she inquired, digging through the sheets he’d deemed most pressing.

Celestina was comfortable with such matters. At times, she wondered if she’d spent more time ruling the Lycan lands than her lord husband had. Lunares became a home to her in the way Moonstone had once been. Now, when she thought of home, she did not know where to picture. _Moonstone? Lunares? Westedge?_

“For now,” Theron sighed, “we still remain more dependent on our sister regions than I would like. It would be good to find a specialization. Coven has magical engineering; Sanguis has manufacturing; Briar has mining.” Amber eyes sharpened. “We stand as a jack of all trades, making us the master of none.”

Celestina leaned forward. “The scholars would claim that we’d be better than the masters of one,” she retorted.

Theron snorted. “Be that as it may. Coven, at least, shall be useful in that endeavour.” Celestina idly registered movement from the lower courtyard. “They’ve been useful before.”

Loud whinnying and hoofbeats interrupted their conversation. Celestina and Theron both glanced downwards, brows furrowing in sync as numerous horses galloped past the Hold’s thick defences. The household guards had granted them ready access; thus, Celestina was inclined to believe that the riders were not threats.

She gasped when she caught sight of said riders. Rhys led Viscardi, Luna, and Sakura through the gates. Her children looked battered and bruised, their attire torn and rumpled. The edges of Sakura’s dress were lined with dirt and mud, and the girl’s eyes were red from spilled tears.

“By the five,” Theron cursed, filing the documents away. “Where in the gods’ names were they? Have they been gone this whole time?"

Celestina’s face creased in worry. “The Hold’s unusual quiet now makes sense. I assumed that they were hiding away in their bedchambers, as teenagers are wont to do. I myself would like to know where Rhys collected them from.”

She left the balcony with Theron close at her heels, traversing across the behemoth castle on quick feet. The stairs seemed a cruel adversary as she raced to check on her children and ward. Theron advanced ahead of her nearing the courtyard, his body tensing when he watched the stable hands wrangle the agitated horses.

“What is going on here?” Theron demanded. He narrowed his eyes as Luna and Viscardi glared daggers at the ground. “Where were you three?”

Sakura took one glance at the man and burst into frightened sobs. Celestina did not miss her husband’s almost imperceptible recoil at the sudden action.

“My lord,” Sakura whimpered as she fell to her knees, “I’m so sorry! Please, do not harm my family.” Her eyes were wide, beseeching pools of amber and water.

Theron looked to Rhys for an explanation. Celestina turned to Viscardi and Luna, willing one of them to speak. Neither obliged her.

“One of the stewards remarked that it’d been overmuch time since they saw the children,” Rhys explained. “I figured I’d search for them myself, before someone less savoury did.” He nodded at the three of them, releasing the reins of his horse to a stable hand. “Fetched them from the woods, I did.”

“You have my thanks, Rhys,” Theron said crisply. “I will handle the rest.”

Rhys bowed and took his leave. Celestina crossed her arms, pulling her draping sleeves around herself. Servants and attendants poked their heads out of doors and windows, curiosity radiating from their gazes.

“Let us move this inside,” Celestina said, wary.

She headed for one of the castle’s offices, not waiting for confirmation. The footsteps and occasional sniffle were all she needed. Once safe from prying eyes and straining ears, Theron addressed the centaur in the room.

“Why did Rhys find all of you in the woods?” Theron asked. There was an edge to his voice as he relinquished his control. “Unaccompanied, no less. I assume none of you had leave to be there, given the guilt painted in your expressions.”

Three sullen faces met him. They all shook their heads, though Celestina did not know which statements they were answering. Viscardi spoke first, dragging his eyes away from the foot of the desk.

“It’s not like we went far,” he mumbled. “Besides, we did it all the time in Lunares. I’ve been to the forest much since we moved north, and-”

“You don’t know who could have taken you!” Theron interrupted. “This isn’t Lunares – you can’t just traipse about as you please. What would I be doing if some bandit or mercenary had found you instead of Rhys? Drafting a ransom agreement? And _you,_ ” Sakura flinched, “was I not clear-”

It was Luna’s turn to interrupt.

“It’s not her fault!” she cried. “I said Lorelei told her to go with me, but it wasn’t true.” Her cheeks puffed out defensively. “I just wanted to shoot some stupid squirrels. Mother said I can’t use my arrows on them in the yard, so I went to the forest and Sakura showed me the way.”

“Oh, you wilful girl,” Celestina sighed. “Must you find a workaround for everything I say?”

Theron continued lecturing them, stern and immovable. Celestina studied her children. Unless they’d fought off a bear together, they appeared to have attacked each other. It had been a while since she’d seen Viscardi and Luna fight. They threw barbs at the drop of a hat, but physical encounters had ceased as they aged.

“Return to your chambers, Luna,” Theron commanded. “I will know if you go anywhere else in the castle.” Luna balled her fists and did as he bid. Theron next turned to Sakura dispassionately. “I will deal with you later.”

Sakura released a choked sob. She gave a trembling curtsy and all but ran out of the office, leaving Viscardi to face his parents. Celestina bit her lip at the shocking wetness that was overcoming Viscardi’s eyes.

“You will deal with her now,” Celestina said. “I will talk to Viscardi.”

She and Theron exchanged a long glance as they engaged in a non-verbal spar. He conceded soon enough. Viscardi stepped out of his way as he exited, gaze once again finding the floor. Celestina stood in front of her son, lifting his head using his chin. As she suspected, he looked ready to shed tears.

It had been a while since Celestina had seen any of her children cry. Even Quill was dry-eyed when they left Lunares, despite his misgivings about the future.

She inclined her head, waiting for Viscardi to speak. He resisted for many moments, before the dam burst. Celestina pulled him closer to her, hands running through brown hair as his shoulders shook. Viscardi held her tightly, face buried into her neck.

Celestina sat them down on the rug, patient as he worked through whatever ailed him. After his anguished cries had reached a more manageable level, she cupped his cheeks with gentle hands.

“’m sorry for crying,” Viscardi slurred, his sclera an angry red.

“No,” Celestina said, “do not ever apologize for that. It is not a crime to _feel._ ”

He sniffled and nodded, drawing muddy knees to his chest. The occasional hiccup escaped him. Celestina stroked his hair, fingers tangling in the rough locks. Finally, Viscardi answered her unspoken question.

“I overheard father talking to his councillors,” Viscardi whispered. “They were discussing wedding me to someone. I … I didn’t … I needed some air. That’s why I was in the forest.”

 _A betrothal generated such a response?_ Celestina hummed. She motioned for him to continue, not wanting to discourage him by disregarding the issue at hand.

“Who did they mention, do you know?” she inquired.

“Jericho Wolfheart.”

Ice coursed through her veins. Celestina’s hand stiffened where it trailed. It took every ounce of self-control within her not to unsheathe her claws, lest she pierce Viscardi’s scalp.

The crest of the Wolfheart Clan was the prints of a wolf on a field of copper-red, for they walked in the blood of their enemies. They resided in the farthest recesses of the northern Annex, a bloodline of ruthless werewolves that had been the first to champion Silas Wolff’s cause. They clearly meant to be one of the last to abandon it. If any man was the second coming of the Annex’s hungriest leader, it was Lord Vincent Wolfheart.

Celestina had held little love for the Wolfhearts as a girl, and their unyielding commitment to the old way of her people made her stomach turn on the worst of days. Jericho Wolfheart, son of Vincent and heir to Dire Hold, was a man whose fearsome reputation preceded him. Even Theron would listen to tales of his exploits across Stepes with a grimace.

With so many Insurgents pardoned by the crown, Celestina was dismayed but not shocked to realize that he would have slipped through the cracks.

“Are you certain?” Celestina prodded. “Perhaps you misunderstood.”

Viscardi laughed hollowly. “I must have confused him with the _other_ Jericho Wolfheart. You know, the one that plants flowers in villages instead of burning them to the ground.” He roughly palmed away a wet track on his cheeks. “Lorelei gets the Annex, Ezra has the Tower, and Quill rules all of Eurydice in his fancy palace.” Bitterness clouded his voice. “I’m glad father has thought of a gift for me, too. How kind of him.”

Celestina resumed her movements along his hair. She sat with Viscardi for a time, her mind abuzz with unpleasant possibilities. When her legs began to tingle like needle’s pricks, Celestina pulled them both from the floor.

“Go to your chambers,” she said, squeezing her son’s hand. “Draw a bath and change into clean clothes. I will have someone send food to you come suppertime.”

She kissed his forehead softly. Viscardi honoured her words, obedient in his distress. Celestina’s heart broke anew as she watched him pad along the corridors with his head lowered, the usual confident sway gone from his body.

\---

Celestina sat by the unlit twin hearths of the Clan Head’s solar, staring into the blackness with an intensity unlike herself. Shadows danced across the room as the door opened then closed. She sheathed and unsheathed her claws. Theron entered the room with an exhale, stretching his back tiredly.

“Luna grows wilder by the year,” he griped. He joined Celestina at her seat, running a hand through his hair. “Lorelei got involved when she heard her howling and complaining. She made to cover her, but I could tell that Lorelei had no clue as to what Luna was talking about.”

“Theron,” Celestina said, ignoring his statement.

“Hmm?”

“Did you betroth Viscardi to Jericho Wolfheart?”

Theron replied after a cautious silence. “I may have considered it.”

_And you could not have told me? At least you do me this small respect by not lying to my face._

“Are you aware of the things he did during the war?” she asked.

“I am.”

“And are you aware that Lord Wolfheart’s heir is far older than Viscardi, and has been wed thrice before?”

“Viscardi will not be a boy forever. He is almost a man grown. Besides,” Theron increased the distance between them, growing blank, “any marriages would occur after he comes of age.”

Celestina had learned to love Theron in the years they’d spent together, and she gladly did her duties as a wife and a lady. She rose from the seat and towered over him, taking him in for the second time this day. Theron, her husband. The ever-practical Governor. How she wished to strike him sometimes.

“I have given you five children,” Celestina said measuredly. “Carried them, nursed them at my own breast. I educated them in the ways of the highborn all the while you were mucking about in Stepes.”

“I had no choice as to mucking about in Stepes,” Theron said, equally measured.

She was not finished. “All I asked was that you keep our children safe.” The urge to sharpen her teeth gnawed at her will. “Instead, you gave one away to a man that answers to no one. Now you are giving another to one who is more beast than man.”

Celestina thought of Quill, all alone in the capital with a man she knew only from his conquests. Now she thought of Viscardi, all alone with another such person. Dear Remus, for once she wished a normal marriage for her children.

“Do your children mean nothing to you?” she hissed. “Must you always place them in the line of fire? You sent Quill off to our enemies in the capital-”

“And now they are enemies no longer.” Theron had the audacity to roll his eyes. “Vipers strike when threatened, but Quill is not exactly the most threatening figure. Quill has a crown and a throne, yet he is not even required to use them. How much simpler could his life get?”

“The Wolfhearts are more like to take Viscardi and behead him than they are to make him Lord of Dire Hold!” Celestina snapped. “Will you make a hostage of all my sons?” She loomed above him. “Who is next? Who shall you reward with Luna?”

Theron stood as well, taking away the height advantage that she had. It did not perturb her. Celestina’s golden eyes matched his amber ones in tightly-monitored anger.

“You can’t speak out against all of our children’s marriages,” Theron said calmly.

“I bear no ill will towards Everett and Blair - they are good and kind people.” Fists balled, her nails breaking the skin. “But _Jericho Wolfheart -_ a man who butchers non-combatants? A man who has outlived three spouses before his hair turns white? I will speak out until my tongue falls from my mouth.”

“Viscardi will be fine.”

“ _How do you know?_ ”

Theron walked away from her then, trudging to the window. He drew the curtains, the lights from metropolitan Westedge gleaming like far-off pearls.

“Because,” Theron drawled, “the betrothal is not real.”

Celestina bid him explain, exhausted by this conversation.

“Jericho is reckless, but he lacks the intellect to be anything more than a brute,” Theron said. “The man will die within the year on some fool’s errand. He and his father both, if Remus is kind.” He pushed the window open, allowing warm air to stream inside. “The prospect of wedding the child of a Governor is meant to entice them to lower their arms.

“The Greeneports will soon wish to parlay, no doubt. With the Wolfhearts staying their hand, I can focus solely on the Mooreshields. Once their remaining allies have bent the knee, the Wolfhearts will be easier to cow into submission.”

Celestina’s second sister, Circe, used to giggle over the bold Lycan soldier when they’d been blushing maidens in the midst of a revolution. Josephine was more reserved, citing a deep-set hunger in those amber eyes. When Celestina had shed the moon-and-stars and donned the black tower, she’d wondered what it would take to satiate her new husband.

“So,” Celestina said, “that is what Viscardi is to you. Bait. What an underhanded man you are, Theron.”

_Yet here I stand, the Lady of Scarwood Hold who gained the title through marriage to a Lycan. Nothing will be ever enough for you, will it? I’m sure living in the shadow of Silas Wolff is what kept you from finishing the war the way he’d intended._

“You disparage me for arranging marriages,” Theron said, “then attack me when they are false. What am I to do?”

“Stop gambling with my children! They are not your pawns.”

“Pawns, children. Are they not the same thing, if not differently loved?” Celestina bristled at the question. “You were your parents’ pawn as much as I was to mine. This was no love match, Tina, regardless of how fond I’ve grown of you.”

Any other day would see her smiling and teasing at the last admission. For now, however, she simply begged the summer to come quickly.

“I shall have an attendant prepare a room,” Celestina said, voice colder than an Annexian winter. “There are many spare chambers in this castle. I’m certain you will be comfortable in one of them.”

A dark brow raised when Theron took her meaning. He retreated from the window with a shrug. Celestina returned to her place aside the twin hearths, legs crossing elegantly as she tuned out the shuffling in the solar. Only after hearing the sound of the heavy door closing – lightly, for Theron knew better than to slam doors in her household – did she slacken her posture.

Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled. It was a sad and mournful tune. Celestina found it quite fitting. Singers and minstrels could scarcely capture the ache within her the way this animal did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *humanizes Theron for 3 seconds* Alright that’s enough.  
> I think it's interesting that Viscardi and Luna look up to Quill and Ezra, who both look up to Lorelei, who kinda-sorta looks up to Theron, who looks up to no one because he’d rather chop a man’s legs off than be beneath them. 
> 
> Celestina vs Theron waking their kids up  
> Celestina: *gently shakes them awake, has breakfast made*  
> Theron: *flips light switch, pulls covers off* Sun’s up, bitches up *leaves*


	34. Weep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why is being alive so much work? Ayden is not even having a good time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I rewrote part of Light of the Moon. It felt kind of flat before. I like it much better now, so check it out!  
> Damien Caedis looks like Haganezuka from Demon Slayer. Hubba bubba. Also, the Iron City kinda looks like Le Mont-Saint-Michel in Normandy, France. The rest of the Ironhill spreads out around it.  
> What kind of writer would I be if my dark-haired vampire king love interest wasn't angsty?  
> CONTENT WARNING: DISCUSSIONS OF TORTURE (not shown)

Ayden Caedis  
The Ironhill, 1 Cardinal

***

Ayden was not used to feeling small. Caedises ran on the taller side, and years of swinging Legionnaire around had built up a respectable amount of muscle on his frame. His constant need to be doing _something_ when not in open combat had certainly helped.

That made little difference when standing aside Thorfinn Ragnarsson.

Titans were aptly named, Ayden thought. He poured a glass of bourbon, hovering over the second before turning to Thorfinn. The Great Chieftain lowered himself onto one of the plush chairs in Ayden’s office with surprising elegance for one so grand. Ayden was glad for the high ceilings in the Redfyre Palace. He idly wondered what Tundra – and Boreas, in general – looked like as he examined the man. Surely everything there was larger, what with the sheer number of titans that resided on the northern continent.

“Neat,” Ayden inquired, “or on the rocks?”

“I am partial to a bit of ice, Your Majesty.”

Ayden nodded and fashioned Thorfinn’s drink for him. “Ayden shall suffice,” he said. “You’ve more than earned that honour.” 

“Thorfinn, then, if we are to be equals.”

Thorfinn’s hand dwarfed the glass as he accepted it. Ayden sat across from him, taking a sip from his own. Words could not describe how much he wished to avoid this interaction, but it would be irresponsible not to address the dark cloud hanging over him.

“You have my eternal gratitude, Thorfinn,” Ayden smiled. “I am not sure whether Quill would have survived without your intervention. Though,” he crossed his legs, letting the smile drop, “you must understand that such matters are not to be freely discussed in Eurydice.”

Thorfinn chuckled, his voice a deep baritone. “Discretion amongst the ruling class holds true no matter where my travels take me. I am more than aware of its importance.”

They both nursed their drinks after a pause. Ayden’s eyes traced the curve of Thorfinn’s horns, analysing their effectiveness as weapons. Old habits died hard, it seemed. Debating battle strategies kept his skin from crawling as he considered the reasons for Thorfinn’s presence in the palace.

_By the five, Ayden. Blood magic?_

Ayden resisted slumping over. He was not upset about Julius Wolff’s death, not truly. The man would have likely followed his father. However, the nature of it was unethical enough to make Ayden pale. He made no claims as to his own purity – warfare left few innocents in its wake – but he shuddered each time he remembered what he’d sanctioned.

_I did it for Quill._

“I’m afraid I know little and less about magic,” Ayden said. He swirled the glass around, watching the amber liquid as it moved. “Forgive me if I question why your suggestion worked and not others.”

Thorfinn hummed. “Magic is an ethereal force,” he explained. “Its origins are beyond our comprehension. I am sure most would cite gods and mystical beings as its creators. That being said, there are countless ways to tap into and wield its power.

“Blood magic is not so aghast as your kingdom claims,” Thorfinn continued. “It is simply another way to manipulate the world. In theory, it is no worse than alchemy or elemental magic. Eurydicean magic could reach new heights without such strict regulations.”

Ayden’s grip tightened. “I quite like the heights they’ve reached.”

There was a warning in his voice despite his light tone. This had not been an easy choice to make. He’d spent many a sleepless night questioning his decision to eschew the other avenues Reyna had mentioned. In the end, the immediacy of the solution had been greater than its complications.

“Of course,” Thorfinn drawled. He inclined his head with an enigmatic smile.

Thorfinn rolled back one of his sleeves, holding his fingers up in the light. A silver band glinted on his index finger. Ayden absentmindedly took note of a sharp protrusion on the ring. His eyes widened in surprised as Thorfinn sliced his thumb, a thin stream of blood running down his palms.

Before Ayden could react, Thorfinn set aside his glass and clasped his hands together. A bright red circle formed when he pulled them apart. Ayden sat deathly still as a small box materialized in Thorfinn’s grip. The titan procured a handkerchief next, wiping up the blood he’d spilled.

 _Blood magic is as aptly named as titans are,_ Ayden concluded. _I do not like magic_. _I have seen it too much of late._ To think a young Ayden would jealously watch Arion and the branch Sylphs as the elves moved the earth and heavens with body and mind.

Thorfinn extracted a thin object from the box, holding it up for Ayden’s inspection. A surge of cold rage and sickness overcame him when he recognized Apollo’s emerald. He glanced between it and Thorfinn, his brows lowering in question.

“An interesting artefact this is,” Thorfinn mused. His unsliced thumb traced the silvery clasps. “I’ve encountered many of the sort, although _this_ particular one has seen a fair amount of modification.”

Ayden deposited his glass on a nearby end-table. “I was under the impression that it was unique in its design.”

“Not at all. This necklace is an extreme example, but it operates on a well-known concept.” Inky black eyes drifted to Ayden. “Outside of Eurydice, that is.”

Thorfinn laid it out on the table, the emerald lacking the vibrant green that Ayden had come to associate with it. Ayden stared at the thin item, shocked at how something that appeared so delicate could bring such strife with it. He had half a mind to destroy it, though he’d conceded to Thorfinn’s request to study the damn thing.

“What use is it?” Ayden asked, nervous. “Surely you do not mean to tell me that people keep such items on a regular basis.”

“Many countries still subscribe to thraldom,” Thorfinn said. “Tundra’s neighbours included. It is a dying system, but it still lives.”

Ayden inclined his head, beckoning for more information. Thraldom – slavery, for all intents and purposes – was once a fixture in Eurydice. The Sanguin Empire and Kingdom of Briar had been notorious for keeping them, before abandoning the practice in the Fire and Rose Eras respectively. The old Echolyte Empire had them, too, until Fire chased away the Dark Era.

He’d assumed other continents had followed. Ayden suddenly realized how little he knew of the lands beyond Orpheus.

Thorfinn tapped a finger on his armrest. “The necklace is a type of suppressor jewel,” he said, “meant to keep the wearer docile. Based off its design, it must have been created for a highborn or well-educated thrall as opposed to an ordinary one.” Thorfinn drank from his glass, calm despite the topic at hand. “Normally, suppressors are bound to the will of a master or an owner. Bracelets that slit wrists if the thrall misbehaves; necklaces that choke; circlets that slice through bone.

“They are not meant to react to the wearer, otherwise a thrall would simply end their suffering. This emerald, however, was altered to respond to anyone who wears it. Suppressor jewels will kill if removed without permission from the thrall’s master.”

 _Does that make Apollo the master? Or the person who sent him?_ Ayden’s tongue stroked his fangs anxiously. “I imagine the emerald interpreted any removal attempts as unsanctioned. Lady Livingstone mentioned a painful sensation when she used her alchemy against it.” 

“Lady Livingstone introduces a new element altogether.” Thorfinn crossed his arms thoughtfully. “Her Philosopher’s Stone is a magical wonder. It is a shame that she experienced the suppressor’s second-hand effects, but she weakened it nonetheless. Had she persisted, she’d have traded her life for your husband’s.”

 _She nearly saved Quill at her own expense,_ Ayden frowned. _How nice. I am certain the knowledge of her unintentional selflessness would chafe at her pride._ He rubbed his temples, reminding himself that he was in her debt.

“In the absence of permission,” Thorfinn said, “a blood price can be paid. I’d anticipated using enough blood to kill a man or two,” Ayden blocked all thoughts of Julius Wolff, “but I overestimated.”

Ayden’s softly-pointed ears twitched. “I beg your pardon?”

“The werewolf you offered still lives. Blood loss may very well claim him in due course, but he draws breath as we speak.”

“I see. I would like to have him returned, should you no longer be requiring his … services.”

“It shall be done.”

Ayden released his own breath. It alleviated his guilt somewhat, though his hands still felt sticky from all of the blood he’d just added to them. A laugh nearly escaped him. He was a vampire, and yet here he was balking at mentions of physical and metaphorical blood.

 _I did it for Quill. I did it for Quill._ What good was this mantra? Quill would be horrified if he knew what it took to heal him. The realm would be horrified if it knew.

Ayden leaned back against his seat. “You will be wanting some compensation. This was a lot to ask from one I’ve only recently began calling a friend.”

Thorfinn waved dismissively. “Oh, I could not possibly demand anything. The restoration of your husband’s health is reward in and of itself.”

“I insist, my lord. No need to be modest.” A polite rejection. This was familiar. Ayden was accustomed to such social niceties. The capital thrived on empty words.

The titan smiled. “Unrest grows in Tundra,” he intoned. “The nation trembles as the nine chiefdoms squabble endlessly. An end to the discontent would be a blessing, but I fear we need an external hand to see it through.”

 _So, that is why you have been travelling as much as you say. You are seeking military backing from a foreign power. Very well._ Ayden sighed internally. He’d been hoping to put civil conflict behind him, not get involved in another one.

Ayden collected their glasses, returning to the office cabinet. He held up the decanter, lowering it when Thorfinn shook his head. A second helping of alcohol did not sound appealing, and so Ayden abandoned both glasses.

“If you think Eurydice can be of assistance,” Ayden said, “then we are happy to help. Unfortunately, the Garrison will be tied up for the foreseeable future. The Navy, however, remains available.”

“Naval support will be more than enough. Boreas has a long history with the sea, as it stands.” 

“Excellent. Arrangements will be made through my Inner Circle. Once you return to Tundra, expect the Master of Defense to contact you.”

It bought Ayden time to prepare for an unexpected overseas agreement. Thorfinn placed a hand over his heart and bowed while seated, the action fluid and precise. Ayden matched it with the Eurydicean gesture. Not for the first time, he wished that each of his decisions would not have such far-reaching consequences.

\---

The Suzerain’s Keep was a small lodging on the palace grounds, complete with its own quarters and staff. Ayden was quite familiar with it, given its current occupant. As such, he had no qualms about barging in unannounced.

“One of these days,” Arion practically shrieked, “I’m going to throw fire magic at you. It would _not_ be an accident!”

Ayden simply grinned, the sight of his old friend calming his worries after the tension of speaking with Thorfinn. He trapped Arion in a bear hug, baring his fangs playfully.

“Would you two like some privacy?” came Persephone’s voice.

Ayden’s smile widened as he saw the elf’s face reflected in the light of a speculum. He tightened his hold on Arion as he thrashed, forever amused at how useless Arion was when he could not use magic to expel himself from a situation.

“You are the only one for me,” Arion whined. “I do not know who this man is.”

Persephone snickered, her dark hair bobbing with the movement. Ayden released his friend, making himself comfortable as obnoxiously as possible. A tut from the hallway drew his attention to Lady Fiona. He waved languidly at her as she blew the curtains closed with air magic. Persephone’s image brightened in the newly darkened atmosphere.

“Ayden,” Persephone said slowly. “What is on your face?”

A hand instinctively brushed the hairs on his cheek. “I’ve considered growing a beard.” 

“Might you reconsider?”

Arion nodded sagely. Ayden was about to give the man a rude gesture, but Fiona’s presence kept him in line.

“It is actually good that you are here,” Fiona said. “We were discussing marriages.”

“For you?” Ayden joked.

Fiona glared at him, as she was wont to do. “For Lazuli.”

“No, we were not,” Arion protested. “Persephone and I were having a romantic conversation until Her Governorship and His Majesty just _had_ to lay claim to my quarters.”

“Besides,” Persephone said, “Laz is only four. She has a while yet until she becomes Governor of Briar, let alone gets married. Arion hasn’t even had his chance to hold the office.”

“Are you praying for my passing?” Fiona chided.

“ _Nymphae_ , my lady. You’d accuse me so?”

Loud laughter came from Persephone’s end. She disappeared with an amused huff. When she reappeared, a bundle of dark curls and mahogany eyes stared back at them.

“Say hello, Laz,” Persephone sang. “It is daddy, nana, and uncle Ayden.”

Lazuli Sylph’s arms wiggled excitedly. “Hello!” She pulled her cheeks back, revealing teeth that had begun separating. “Look at my teeth,” through her muffled voice, all Ayden heard was _teef_ , “mama calls me vampire-cat.”

Arion beamed at her. “Terrifying,” he gushed. “Almost like the Great Count himself.”

Ayden pouted. Lazuli’s childlike chatter resembled Lucien and Esme before they grew up and realized that their father was not as interesting as people their own age. Arion cooed when his daughter produced a tiny gale that was strong enough to disrupt Persephone’s hair. Even Fiona’s aged face softened at her grandchild.

“You should start finding matches for the prince and princess,” Fiona said to Ayden. She glared at Arion, hands crossing in her lap. “Would that you had had children much earlier. Lazuli could have wed either of them.”

“We’d have had the second-generation Demons,” Ayden agreed, “but Lord Sylph absolutely _needed_ to wait for the right person.”

“And I found her!” Arion protested. “Well, Selene found her. Either way, it was a ‘win’ for me.”

“In any case,” Persephone said, “Laz is more of an age with the Skyreach twins. Lady Melissa was lovely when I met her in the capital. Perhaps Briar’s ties to Stepes could be strengthened if we fostered one of them in the future.”

Fiona wrinkled her nose. “I would prefer a Livingstone, truth be told. Our regions have never seen eye to eye. Uniting the two most important Eurydicean clans would put an end to this foolish rivalry our ancestors perpetuated.”

“You’d say this in front of a Caedis?” Ayden mumbled.

“Oh, please. Sanguis lost its edge as soon as the last dragons died."

“I had no part in that. I wasn’t even there.”

Arion and Persephone resumed their conversation as Ayden chatted with Fiona. Ayden kept his own words light, hoping to forget any mentions of blood magic. He had not informed Lady Fiona of the true mechanism of the necklace; could not bring himself to see the horror and disappointment in her eyes. She knew enough to connect Thorfinn to Quill, but that was all that Ayden would willingly give her.

“It is the Briar way to champion conquest through marriage,” Fiona said. “Attacking one clan loses its valour when doing so would enrage five others.”

Ayden huffed. “Half of your treaties will conflict after a few generations. A clan would likely end up both at war and not at war with another.” 

“Be that as it may. Quill gave us the Annex; Lucien can get us Coven. If you wed Esmerelda to a Trident, we would bring the Seas out of reclusion.”

“Can’t I let them decide when they’re older?”

“And let the kingdom crumble when they choose some idiot?” A hand rested on his shoulder. Ayden took note of her bangles, his mind wandering to suppressor jewels. “You and Selene were lucky to have fostered together, but not every noble can have such blessings. At least, if you start making plans now, the twins will have some semblance of affection for their spouses before saying their vows.” 

Ayden exhaled. Time stubbornly marched on despite his best efforts. What he would not give to have two little children toddling after him once again. He wondered if this was what it was like for Damien Caedis as he’d watched his own son grow from afar. Had his father miss him, too? How Ayden wished that he’d been less adamant about remaining in Briar, nothing more than a selfish boy concerned with pleasure over ruling.

“Mayhap the younger Livingstone,” Ayden capitulated. “I recall him forming a friendship with the twins.” _Coven has always been the kingdom’s wild card. It is bad enough that I violated the Impasse by breaching it during the Liberation._ “If nothing else, a Livingstone Potentate would lessen the debt the crown owes to that thrice-damned clan.” 

Fiona nodded her approval. She rose and beckoned he follow her, awarding Arion and Persephone with greater privacy. They sat on a bench proximal to the Suzerain’s Keep, one of the scattered white poppy bushes blowing in the wind. It would be a few months yet before they bloomed. He could not wait until the summer, for spring had been exhausting.

His finger traced a green leaf delicately. Ayden was no gardener, but he thought that white poppies bore resemblance to moonflowers.

“I was meant to marry Damien, you know,” Fiona said. “Sovereign Jocelyn Caedis sent him to Briarlight when I was a girl already flowered and he was still some snot-nosed brat. I fought tooth and nail to kill the idea in its cradle.”

Ayden chuckled. “Then you passed the honour to my mother.”

“Not quite. Lenora Tydus was set to be my successor. _That_ went down in flames.”

“What happened?”

Fiona pressed her lips together and shook her head. “It matters little.” Ayden’s curiosity piqued at the evaded question. “Lilith wed your father soon after the Tydus debacle. Liam was beyond incensed. He was charmed by Lilith, you see. He’d even been courting her; would send lilies through her maids-in-waiting.” 

Her brown eyes grew introspective. “Lilith wished to end Eurydice’s isolationist tendencies. A foreign princess to wed to you, perhaps, from some empire in Amaterasu. If not, she considered wedding you and Arion. We discussed it fairly extensively.” She hmphed. “Imagine her surprise when Damien announced that he’d already decided on a Lazarus.”

“Gods,” Ayden laughed. “Arion as Potentate? I can scarcely picture a kingdom led by the two of us.” _Though, I suppose that is what happened after Selene died. I’m sure the realm mourned for itself every day. I certainly did._

They sat together for a while, trading words with controlled ease. Ayden’s shoulders slackened despite the myriad issues that demanded his attention. He glanced at the morning sun as it brightened, unaccustomed to being awake at this hour.

Quill’s recovery had given him an odd schedule. Gone were his days of rising late and sleeping later. Even so, he’d take Quill’s bizarre preference for waking before the sun over his husband not waking at all. As soon as Ayden was able, he would visit the Potentate’s wing.

Until then, the call of the crypt nudged at him.

***

The wall was cool at Ayden’s back as he leaned on it. He sat on the floor, the only noise in the crypt being the buzz of electricity and the swish of cloth against blade.

Dawn gleamed once Ayden had finished cleaning it. He turned the thin rapier in his hand, tracing the faded designs on the silversteel. Dusk sat aside him, having already been tended to. He held both of Selene’s swords, idly stabbing the air in front of him.

“Dawn, Dusk,” he said, “meet Eclipse. He’s Legionnaire’s brother.”

Eclipse’s gold plating glinted from the floor, its serpentine pommel reared in a permanent hiss. Ayden snorted. With all the strange magic swirling through the palace, he would not be surprised if the three swords began actively introducing themselves.

Ayden deposited the rapiers in their case once he was satisfied with his work. He retrieved Eclipse next, running a finger along the diagonal fracture. The thin crack was a memento from his fight with Apollo. Ayden’s scarred palm twitched, remembering the sensation of the broken conduit as the mage adamantly forced magic through it.

 _It would be best to send Eclipse to a smithy,_ Ayden thought, _but what is the point? It’s not broken, and swords are more ceremonial these days_. He grimaced anyway. Liam would kill him if he saw how Ayden treated his wedding gift.

He sighed. Theron would kill him if he found out about Quill. _Quill_ would kill him if he found out about Julius. Gods, the list of people that had good cause to kill him was astounding. He wasn’t even sure if he’d fight back at this point.

“Half of the things I’ve done would land me in front of a firing squad if I was not the Sovereign,” Ayden muttered, running his hand through his hair. It was growing longer than he typically kept it.

He finally looked up at the statue he sat before, red eyes meeting sculpted ones. Their Sovereignty left a long-lasting legacy, and there was no one in Eurydice who would not immediately recognize their name. Ayden did not sit before Celeste Caedis or Damien Caedis. Neither Adrienne Bloodworth nor Dadia Stareyes stared back at him.

No, it was Gideon Rosemont.

The Tyrant of the Rose. Simply the Tyrant, when his secrets saw the light of day.

One could frame Rosemont’s reign sympathetically. Eurydice had loved him, for a time. A conqueror that removed the noble family that had pushed the realm to the brink, replacing them with a far more popular clan. He’d subdued the errant werewolf lands that were in conflict with the kingdom, but had been merciful enough not to slaughter them down to the last man. He’d lost a Potentate to a frozen landscape through a tragic turn of events and remarried a much younger one - only for them to lay dying in the Redfyre Palace. 

_Is that Rosemont’s reign_ , a traitorous voice whispered, _or your own?_

“Away with you,” Ayden hissed. “We are not the same. At the very least, Quill did not die. I made sure of it.”

And that brought him to his next dilemma. Blood magic had been outlawed, for Eurydice feared the practice after the Rosemont Dynasty. Eras had passed with nary a peep of the forbidden magic. Until now. 

_The Sovereign is the law. They can bend it as they wish._ Ayden swallowed at those words.

How heavy his crown sat. On the days when Ayden most questioned his regime – saw too many similarities between himself and the black stain on the Red Throne – he’d thought that blood magic, at least, would never be on that list.

Ayden glanced at the Tyrant’s face, wondering which of the gods saw fit to add blood magic to his reign. _Was it you, Remus? Did your anger never fade?_

No, this was not the work of gods. Ayden had had a choice to make, and he’d made it. He could point to no one but himself.

Textbooks described the Tyrant’s last words as chilling. He’d watched stone-faced as his children were executed, meeting the enraged crowd steadily. As the sword was brought to his neck, Gideon Rosemont proclaimed that they _weep, for another comes._

The musical ringing of a bell dragged Ayden out of his head. He looked around wildly, his hold on Eclipse strengthening. He rose slowly, ears pricked as the ringing persisted.

“Esme?” Ayden called cautiously. His feet landed soundlessly, tracking the noise as he perused the crypt. “Is that you?”

“Close.”

Quill stepped around a statue, golden eyes curious. He smiled at Ayden, shaking a white and blue bell around. Ayden released a breath at the sound.

“What are you doing down here?” he asked. “Should you not be resting?”

Quill shrugged. “I’ve grown tired of resting, believe it or not. And,” he resumed his tour of the crypt, “my favorite handmaiden did not come for his afternoon visit. A little serpent told me that he likes to slither around in the crypt.”

The bell rang anew. Ayden sheathed Eclipse and held Quill’s hand, prompting him to cease making the shrill screech. It was still strange to see him up and about. He instinctively cradled Quill’s fingers, soothed by the lack of claws. Pale scars peeked overtop Quill’s shirt.

Despite Ayden’s hold, Quill managed to shake the bell once more.

“What can I get you, Your Grace?” Ayden asked. He breathed in Quill’s scent, something clean and floral. There was a medicinal tinge from his scar treatment.

Quill’s lips curved upwards. “Garlic bread would be nice.”

“Shall I serve it on silverware?” 

Quill snickered, breaking free of Ayden. He pocketed the bell daintily, studying the nearest statue with fascination. Ayden regarded him as he did so, the churning guilt within him quietened by the werewolf’s presence. _I did it for Quill._

“Who is this?” Quill inquired.

Ayden glanced at the statue, scrunched his face in thought, and gave up. “Sovereign Grigori Bloodworth,” he read. “Son of Adrienne and Cayne Bloodworth. The sixth person to sit the throne.”

Quill hummed. “Adrienne? The one whose death caused the War of the Dragons?”

“The one and only.”

They strolled through the crypt together, with Quill occasionally asking about a monarch or giving information about them. His eyes lit up when they reached Dadia Stareyes. Quill launched into tales of her exploits, his husband bouncing on the balls of his feet as he recounted tales from ‘The Nomad and her Preachers’. A small smile overcame Ayden.

“You’ve a fondness for her, I’ve noticed,” Ayden said.

Quill flushed, his youth shining clear. “She’s my favorite Sovereign.”

“It’s nice to see you so passionate. Alas,” red eyes twinkled, “I’m wounded that I’m not your favorite Sovereign.” 

“My apologies, Ayden. Dadia comes first.”

The crypt held a new light as Ayden approached it as a tourist would, pointing out the odd Potentate as they went on. All past Sovereigns had a place in the crypt, but Potentates were often excluded. Regardless, it was not unusual to find them beside their partners. Caedises, Quill remarked as they stalled near Lilith von Drake, seemed more apt to include them.

Ayden examined his parents quietly. He’d been thinking about them much of late. Selene stood a number of paces away, the empty space beside her reserved for the day when he would permanently join the crypt. During Ayden’s lowest nights, that prospect had been more than welcomed. He shifted uncomfortably, eyes drifting to Quill.

“They all have such impressive monikers,” Quill said, having read the plates of many rulers. “Adrienne the Dragonblood, Dadia the Nomad, Celeste the Great.” He hesitated as he came upon Damien. “The Bloody Serpent.”

 _The one whose decision led to the war_. _The one who was killed by Insurgents._

Quill poked Ayden, side-stepping the latent tension. “Ayden the Viper.”

Ayden returned the gesture. “Quill Lycan, the Symbol of Peace.”

“Some symbol I’ve been.” Quill paused, caressing his neck. “Did you tell my family? About … this?”

“Not yet,” Ayden admitted. He shuffled his feet, readying an explanation. “I-”

“Good,” Quill exhaled. “I will tell them myself, when I am ready. It might not be for a while.”

Ayden threaded their fingers together briefly, squeezing Quill’s hand. “Take your time. I will be there, if you wish.”

A shallow nod was all he was given. Ayden returned to the statues, several things swirling in his head. Quill wrinkled his nose at Damien as he read the summary of his reign, and Ayden felt the need to defend his father.

“He was not a bad man,” Ayden stated, resisting the urge to ball his fists and stomp his feet. “The war was not entirely his fault. It’s just…” he trailed off, unsure of what to say. “The people – your people – were angry. He did not know how to react.” _I scarcely know how to react sometimes._

Golden eyes met his. “I know the story,” Quill said. “Silas Wolff may have ordered the Invasion of Stepes, but he never would have done so if your father had not convicted Daron Wolfrose of murder.”

Ayden crossed his arms, eyes finding his mother. “Crown loyalists would say that it was set in motion precisely because Lilith von Drake was murdered by Wolfrose.”

“An interesting divide.”

Quill’s scars looked painfully prominent on his neck. Ayden wanted to stroke lines, but he refrained. Instead, his thumb ran along his palm, detailing the jagged edges of the pink mar.

“Can I tell you something?” Ayden whispered. His heart hammered in his ribcage.

“Yes, of course. What is the matter?”

Ayden had heard tales of the last year of the Gray Era. From Fiona, from Liam, from his father. He’d learned more each time he visited the Ironhill, poring over article upon article that gave him even a tiny glimpse of his mother’s demise.

Damien’s title and belief in Daron’s guilt had put pressure on investigators, for who wanted to contradict the Sovereign? Ayden had come out even more confused, fretting over the many aspects that did not line up. Someone had killed her, that much was true. 

If you were to ask Ayden if he wholeheartedly believed that that _someone_ was Wolfrose, his answer would be given hesitantly.

Ayden turned away from his parents, unable to hold their stone gazes anymore. “I don’t know if Wolfrose truly killed my mother.”

A chill ran over his body at the admission. Lilith and Damien’s unseeing eyes bore down on Ayden with an indifferent intensity. Quill cocked his head, silent as he sorted through the mess in his head.

Surely there were other people within the House of the Five Faiths on that day. Damien had been quick to blame Daron, because the knife used on Lilith was identified as werewolf in origin. The evidence was circumstantial at best, coincidental at worst.

_Yet, if it was not Daron, then who could it have been? I know what it is like to be blinded by rage. My father had his own choice to make, and the kingdom bled for it._

“If Wolfrose is innocent,” Ayden said, gripping Eclipse’s hilt, “then the crown spent near-on three decades fighting a civil war that was not justified.”

If Wolfrose was innocent, then the Insurgents had good reason to denounce the Red Throne. If Wolfrose was innocent, then Ayden had spent years smothering a rebellion meant to bring justice to a wrongfully imprisoned man. If Wolfrose was innocent, then Ayden had plucked a werewolf from his home and leashed him to the Ironhill.

 _What does that make me?_ he wondered.

History was written by the victors, but what was Ayden supposed to do if the victors were _wrong?_

“War is horrific,” Quill said, “no matter how justified it appears. Grand Seer Calliope professed that our salvation lay not in the past. Yet,” his eyes met Ayden’s, “that does not mean that we cannot learn from it. You hold the power in Eurydice – you can right the wrongs.”

Ayden held his gaze for many a heartbeat. “I can try.”

“It won’t be today or tomorrow, but a new foundation will help the realm. _We_ will do it together.”

Determination blazed in Quill’s eyes. Ayden was reminded of the Iron Cathedral, its cavernous walls doing little to contain Quill’s bold declaration. He nodded, throat dry. How Quill remained so spirited was beyond him.

“To think I once thought you shy and uninterested in your titles,” Ayden said.

Quill smiled. “That was your mistake, Your Majesty.”

“I shall not make it again.”

Ayden circled around Quill, steps lighter in the wake of his confession. He’d always wanted to _speak_ to someone about his doubts, but it would have been abhorrent for the crown that the loyalists swore fealty towards to show sympathy towards the rebels.

 _They are rebels no longer,_ Ayden chastised. _They are your subjects once more. Eurydice is whole, for what that word is worth._

Ayden trod towards the spot he’d left Dawn and Dusk, Quill’s footsteps echoing behind him. He retrieved the case and made to return it to its place by Selene’s statue, stopping only when Quill perused the first few Caedis Sovereigns.

“So, that’s Celeste,” Quill whistled. “Who is the man to her right? One of the Grand Seers?”

“No,” Ayden answered. “The Grand Seers during the Ambition Era were sent down to Courtmere. None of them are in the palace.”

Quill’s brows furrowed. “Then that means,” his eyes widened, “this is Gideon Rosemont.”

Ayden stiffened at the tone. Dusk and Dawn’s case flopped awkwardly in his hands as he stared at Quill. The werewolf glared vehemently at the statue, teeth bared and fingers flexing.

“Why is he here?” Quill growled.

“The crypt holds all Eurydicean Sovereigns,” Ayden said. “Rosemont is a Eurydicean Sovereign. So, he’s…” Ayden waved his free hand, unsure of how to end the sentence.

“He doesn’t deserve to be here,” Quill spat. “The man is evil incarnate, yet someone still thought it was a good idea to build a monument to him?”

“I can hardly uproot his statue, Quill. It’s been here for Eras.”

“ _Yes, you can!_ You’re the Sovereign, Ayden. All you need do is say the word, and it would be gone.”

Ayden wavered. “It is a part of Eurydicean history.”

“We don’t need a statue to remind us of what he did. The Annex is more than aware; _werewolves_ across the kingdom still feel the effects of his reign!”

Quill’s fists bunched tightly. “Did you know that Rosemont’s forces put collars on the Lunaeans as they burnt the nation to the ground? Entire cultures were lost – gray-wolves and dire-wolves are all that’s left from Lunae Lumen.” A hollow laugh. “Afterwards, people used to take werewolf children as pets. Then they’d grow up and their captors would realize they were actual human beings, not _dogs_.”

Rosemont’s statue maintained its silence during Quill’s verbal attack. Ayden watched his husband warily, concerned about how his vigorous onslaught would affect his health. He ran hands through his hair, the energy draining from his body.

“Quill,” Ayden mumbled, “can we discuss this once you are stronger? I will consider it in the meantime. Perhaps you shou-”

“No!” Quill stood his ground. “Don’t just ‘consider’ it. Decide, here and now. Honour the Tyrant, or destroy his legacy.”

“It is tradition to place all of the Sovereigns here.”

“Traditions can be forgone if they are wrong!”

Quill’s eyes shined fiercely, brighter than a newly polished Eclipse. Ayden took a step back from him, overwhelmed by the sudden ultimatum. The statues all watched, blank faces awaiting yet another of his decisions. Celeste Caedis, Cyrus Goldenbriar, Gideon Rosemont.

Ayden inhaled deeply, letting the air fill his lungs. He held on to it as long as possible, releasing it in one long motion.

“Okay,” Ayden agreed. “Okay. I’ll … I’ll have it removed.”

Tension left Quill’s shoulders. “Years of atrocity will not be erased by this one act, but it is a start. That has been Eurydice’s vice – starting.”

Ayden took in Quill’s features, viewing him in a new light once again. Standing before the likeness of a man that killed a nation, sitting adjacent to the throne he’d commanded from. Ayden wanted to reach out – to take Quill away from the source of his agitation – but he held himself back.

“There will be a gap,” Ayden sighed, “between the early Caedises and the last Bloodworths.”

It was Quill’s turn to clasp Ayden’s hands. “Then we will fill it,” he said.

“With what?”

Quill’s head whipped around the crypt wildly. A moment later saw a beam gracing his face. Ayden could not help but match it, however weakly.

“Jayne of Viernau,” Quill said, eyes distant, “and Helen Argent. They will stand where he stood.”

Ayden had no contradictions to offer, and so he simply nodded. Quill’s hands were comfortable in his own, and Ayden was loath to break their connection. His gaze roved over to Gideon Rosemont, and he felt relief for the first time as the Tyrant stared back.

\---

The mountain of paperwork still patiently waited for him. Ayden groaned as he dragged himself through his tasks. Things that needed signing, official duties, social engagements. He’d put a handful of them aside – meaning to attend to them after the Celestial Festival – until his plans had been massively derailed.

Today had seen his secretaries adding another stack. Ayden combed through the appearances he and Quill need make, unwilling to do any of them. It would be best to address them sooner rather than later, but Ayden was sorely tempted to keep Quill hidden from Eurydice.

 _Mayhap it is time for some delegation,_ Ayden huffed. _It will not be long until the twins must properly assume their roles as senior royals._

Quill would, too, at the rate he insisted on going.

“Perhaps I should get a pet,” Ayden said, twirling a fountain pen. “I am beginning to feel quite auxiliary.”

Selene had harboured a secret cat in Briarlight. She and Arion made a game of hiding it from Fiona, denying the ‘meows’ with straight faces while Ayden would buy its silence using food bribes. The animal stressed him out to no end, but Ayden admitted that its satisfied rumbles had been pleasing.

He switched to documents of a more intimate nature, granting his brain a much-needed reprieve from work. Many were semi-formal letters from institutions and organizations. Ayden did his best to respond to them in his own hand, but he was only one man and Eurydice was an absurdly large kingdom. He’d get through what he could, and his secretaries would handle the rest. They were adept at recreating his handwriting if need be.

Ayden reached for the next item, blinking in surprise. Hill Magazine had sent him personalized copies of their latest issue. He regarded the cover, finding it strange to see an image of himself kissing another. He had not even noticed the photographers in the Iron Cathedral, too preoccupied with the invasive specula, Calliope’s speeches, and Quill’s silence.

He set aside the other copies. He’d deliver one to Quill on his next visit.

 _I may as well move into the Potentate’s wing,_ Ayden snorted. _What with the amount of time I have been spending there._

Ayden peeled apart the wrapping of a large brown envelope, cursing as several photographs spilled free onto his desk. He rounded them up neatly, furrowing his brows.

All of them were of Quill. He was either standing or seated with schoolchildren, radiant grins on nearly every face. A few featured Quill and other adults – teachers? – their expressions more mature and measured.

A letter slipped out as well. Ayden began skimming it, stopping when he realized that it was addressed to His Grace, Quill Lycan, Potentate of the Kingdom of Eurydice.

 _Oh,_ he thought. _These were sent to my desk by mistake. Another thing to give to Quill._ _He will like them._

He was courteous enough not to read a letter intended for another. Ayden, however, could not resist sifting through the photographs more closely. Many of them were similar but from different angles, suggesting more than one photographer. Even still, one would think them invisible with the way Quill easily engaged with the children before him.

Multiple prints showed Quill kneeling aside a werewolf girl, expressions identical in their exuberance. Her little hands were clasped in his. Quill looked … happy. The photograph was grayscale, yet Ayden swore he could see the bright gold of his eyes.

Ayden rose, collected a book from the shelf near his desk, and reclaimed his seat. He opened the book, eyes softening at the familiar photo album that he’d had since he was a carefree teenager. Ayden went through the pages with a careful hand.

There sat the young Demons of the East, when the title was affectionate rather than a monument to their prowess during the war. Selene had her arms wrapped around him and Arion, fangs cheekily bared.

_Briargarden, 12 War._

A photograph showing Selene. She held an infant Lucien in her arms, tired but content. Esme had been in Ayden’s own arms at the time.

_The Ironhill, 15 War._

Him, Selene, and the twins. Their rejected family portrait. Ayden chuckled as he admired it.

The photographer had grown exasperated with them that day. Ayden and Selene giggled foolishly, as they could not take the man seriously in his wide pantaloons. Esme had squirmed more than a worm, and Lucien levelled the camera with a suspicious glare. They’d eventually managed to keep it together long enough to get a proper picture taken for royal archives, but Ayden loved this one the most.

_The Ironhill, 19 War._

Another, this time with Persephone. The Demons were older then, having had their fair share of combat. Despite this, all four grinned broadly. It was right before Arion’s marriage, back when the elf would flush a fierce red each time Persephone so much as looked in his direction.

 _Nightmeadow, 21 War._ Ayden’s spirits dampened. _The year before Selene’s death._

Ayden turned to a fresh page. He glanced at the prints on his desk, choosing the one with Quill and the little girl. There were others like it. Surely this one would not be missed. He fastened it to the album and penned the latest entry, not noticing the smile that grew on his face.

_The Ironhill, 1 Cardinal._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spotlight: March of the Tyrant
> 
> Gideon Rosemont faced a dilemma. He'd usurped the Red Throne, putting the Bloodworths to death. At this point, the old royal family was little loved by the kingdom. Despite this, many did not want to see them dead. Even more did not take kindly to usurpers. Rosemont needed to win the love of the people, and so he turned his eyes towards the nation that stubbornly refused to yield to the Red Throne - Lunae Lumen. With the First Eurydicean Gray Waste swarming across the continent, Rosemont cited the werewolves as the origins of the plague.  
> The Gray Waste caused tension between them and their neighboring lands, as many Clan Heads were worried about it spreading to their territories. Gideon Rosemont would eventually unite his armies and forcibly remove the werewolves from their ancestral home, burning and pillaging all the while. The Lunaeans were crowded into the little-known lands in western Orpheus, conveniently colonizing new territory for Rosemont and earning him the love of the kingdom - with the exception of his newest subjects. The path they used was named Rose’s March, although it was colloquially referred to as Tyrant’s March. Most of the werewolves experienced painful Transformations due to the stress of the March, and their handlers would often use violence to keep them in line. Eurydice’s belief in the wildness of werewolves was born.  
> Rosemont claimed many of the illicitly acquired lands for Coven, and split the rest between Stepes, Briar, and Sanguis as a “gift” for their support of the crown.  
> Rosemont would continue to be viewed in a positive light by a majority of Eurydice, with his atrocities going overlooked. Until Helen Argent.


	35. Not a King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bad day for rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just learned that there’s a character in Twilight named Esme. How ... how did I arrive here? I haven’t even read the damn series. Did Meyer possess me when I was naming the Sims??  
> Esme's basilisk looks like a king cobra; Lucien's looks like a horned desert viper.

Esmerelda Caedis  
The Ironhill, 1 Cardinal

***

Leviathan’s head bobbled as Esme swung higher and higher. Astrid Thorfinndottir gave the princess an occasional push, her height being somewhat of an advantage. Esme laughed breathlessly as the wind blew through her wavy hair. Below her, the Redfyre Palace’s sanguinem gardens teemed heavy with fruit.

Her mother had built this swing many years ago. It was nestled protectively under a few southern willows. She’d done it so that Esme could play outside without fear of the sun. Whenever the princess grew hungry, they would cheekily steal fruit from the tangled thickets of the gardens.

Esme still pinched sanguinem every now and then, but it was not as entertaining when she was alone.

“I’ve heard there are ogres in Boreas,” Esme said. “What else is up there?”

“There are many layers to the north,” Astrid responded.

“Like an onion.”

“Yes, Your Highness. Like an onion.”

Esme giggled. _Titans are strange._ How she adored the unusual _. I’d like to see more of them. Are they all like Astrid and Lord Thorfinn?_

“Tell me more about your travels,” Esme said when the swing brought her to Astrid once more.

“I have not gone very far,” Astrid replied. She spoke slowly, the words sounding awkward from her lips. “Not as much as my father has.”

“Still. I’ve never left Eurydice, you know. What I would not give to sail the world as you do.”

Astrid poked a dark blue tongue out as she thought. Her hair was tied back in a simple fashion, although several strands had escaped since her excursion with Esme. Astrid’s eyes, however, intrigued Esme to no end. They were _black,_ so unlike what she was accustomed to seeing.

“I have been to Sol,” Astrid said, “for a bit. The starfolk of Azteca were stunning. Their skin was like the night sky, and they had stars on their bodies.”

Esme tried to imagine what it would be like to have stars on her body. It was a funny concept. Did they glow at night? _Sleeping must be a chore when your body glows. Though_ , she glanced at the tiny bits of sunlight that managed to break through the dense foliage of the willow trees, _I suppose they could always sleep during the day. I would, too, if it were not for my lessons._

“I liked Prometheus as well,” Astrid continued. “People there kept little dragons as pets. I saw many on Amaterasu, but theirs looked more like giant snakes.”

Leviathan coiled himself around a tree’s trunk, flicking his forked tongue at Astrid. She blinked inky eyes at the white reptile.

“Eurydice doesn’t have dragons anymore,” Esme lamented.

“There are metal dragons in the south,” Astrid offered. “I saw them farther down in Ancient.”

Esme was puzzled by the notion. She kicked her feet out, breaking the brisk stride of the swing. Once it was safe to dismount, she hopped off the wooden seat and seized Leviathan from his perch. The basilisk wrapped around her, lazily nestling his head in her hair. He grew heavier each day. In a few months, Esme likened that she would not be able to carry the entirety of his length as she was wont to do.

“The Bloodworth Clan had many a dragon.” Esme held a portion of Levi out for Astrid’s inspection, grinning as the titan reverently stroked his pale scales. “As did other clans.” She caressed Levi’s head, imitating flight by flapping his hood. “Adrienne the Dragonblood’s mount was named Asmodeus, and it was a dragon most fearsome. One look at her army was all it took to have Coven racing to bend the knee.”

Astrid hummed. “Boreas has no dragons, but we have other beasts. Mermaids the size of whales; krakens that churn the waves; centaurs that give rides to well-behaved children. Alas,” she sighed, “I am too grown for that now. I have to ride _hornhorses_ while my youngest sibling, Leif, can continue on with a centaur.”

“ _Hornhorse_?” The foreign word was heavy on Esme’s tongue.

“Ahh,” Astrid hesitated. “I do not know the Eurydicean translation. Titans use them because they are large enough to mount. They are like horses, but with a horn on their heads.”

“Oh! You mean unicorns?”

“I suppose.” Astrid crossed her arms, studying the sanguinem lines. “Eurydice is one of the strangest places I have seen. There are two royal families, but one is better than the other. The queen of the water is not as powerful as the queen on the land, and only one is wed to the king.”

Esme furrowed her brow. “Queen on the land…? Are you talking about Quill?” Astrid nodded. “He’s not a queen.”

“He is married to the king. That makes him the queen.”

“My father is not a king, either. Kings and queens live in the Siren Seas.”

“Your language is dumb,” Astrid huffed. Her cheeks flushed a dark blue. “I do not understand why so many speak it.”

Esme smiled, entertained by her embarrassment. She’d initially thought Astrid a woman grown, what with her height, but continued interactions proved that she was a teenager much like herself. They’d struck up a companionship since her arrival in the palace, as Esme could scarcely resist the opportunity for new friends. Particular one so _exotic._

She considered showing Astrid the Ironhill as she’d done for Luna and Corvus, but she’d dismissed the thought when she realized that Astrid had likely already seen whatever sights the city held. Gods, how Esme wished to travel! Perhaps, if she smiled sweetly and batted her eyelashes, her father would arrange a vessel for her.

“Esmerelda Caedis.”

Esme nearly screeched at the deep voice. She turned around swiftly, making her eyes as innocent as possible. It was as if her thoughts had power, for her father had been summoned like the Great Count from Lord Arion’s stories.

“Good day, gentlemen,” Esme said.

Astrid quickly bowed as the Sovereign and Potentate of Eurydice gazed upon them. Esme held her stance, although she could feel her smile cracking. Her father did not use her full name unless she’d _really_ gotten herself into some mischief. Red eyes glowered at her, stern and completely unamused.

“Quill,” Esme said quickly, avoiding the reprimand that was building, “I’m glad that you are not dead.”

Quill blinked in surprise. “I’m glad that I am not dead, too.”

Her father was not moved by her kind words. A shame, really.

“I gave you one rule. One,” Ayden hissed, pointing at Levi. “Keep it confined.” His eyes narrowed. “The servants have told me tales of a white snake appearing in the oddest of places. You would not happen to know anything about that, would you?”

“Levi looks so sad when I lock him in my chambers,” Esme pouted. “Surely-”

“Esmerelda.”

She groaned in defeat. Esme grabbed Astrid’s hand, dragging her along as she vacated the premises. Ayden shook his head, mumbling something that generated a quiet response from Quill. Esme dejectedly glanced at the fluffy dog that accompanied the werewolf, envious on Levi’s behalf for Crescent’s freedom on the palace grounds.

They walked together in silence broken by the everyday noise of the main structure. People bowed and curtsied at Esme as they passed, many of them throwing curious and wary looks towards Astrid and Leviathan respectively. Esme made a request for ice cream to one of them, craving a sweet snack in exchange for her interrupted outing.

The Heir’s Wing was a series of rooms dedicated to the heirs to the throne. Esme branched into her suite after climbing to the top level of the palace. She pushed open the ornate doors and slipped the shoes off of her feet. Her toes sank into the thick rug as she padded over to the glass enclosure underneath her largest window.

Leviathan immediately recoiled, rearing his hood at the box. Esme wrangled the basilisk briefly, before giving up and leaving him where he sat along her shoulders. She instead walked to the small fish tank in the corner of her room.

Esme scooped out a wriggly fish and brought it towards Levi as a peace offering. He snatched it up in a flash, swallowing it whole.

“Goodbye, Sovereign Fish IX,” Esme said. “He shall be succeeded by his children. In the meantime, Lady Fish will rule as Fish Regent.”

“May his soul find safe passage in the afterlife.” Astrid was as solemn if this were a real funeral. “Who shall be Sovereign Fish X?”

Esme gestured at the dullest fish. “Thou shalt be next crowned, and so I name thee Crown Fish.”

“Why not him?” Astrid indicated a plump one. “He is nice and round.”

“This one is older.”

“Eurydiceans and their birth other. It matters who came first, and not who is fit to lead. Very well.” Astrid bowed at the aquarium. “It will be an honor to serve the next Sovereign Fish.”

Esme giggled. She’d eventually need to restock her aquarium with the fish from the palace’s lake, but that was a problem for a different day. She sat on her bed, beckoning for Astrid to join her. Astrid obeyed, neatly seating herself atop the coral-pink sheets.

“I am going to run away,” Esme decided. “I will build a palace all of my own, and Levi can go wherever he pleases. My kingdom will be strange and wonderful, more so than Eurydice.” 

Levi languidly uncoiled himself along her bed. Esme was content to let him roam about her chambers when she slept, often waking up and finding him sprawled across unexpected areas. Once or twice he’d escaped from her quarters, prompting Esme to frantically search the palace for him. It would greatly sadden her if he bit someone and earned Legionnaire to the head.

“Eurydice is not _all_ that strange, in retrospect,” Astrid said after several heartbeats. “I was most fond of the Annex. The snow, volcanoes, and hot springs reminded me of Tundra. And,” she cracked a smile, “the werewolves are cute with their ears and tails.”

Esme frowned in confusion. “Werewolves have tails?”

“Some did.”

 _Since when?_ She knew that they could modify their ears at will – Luna did it often enough – but _tails_ had yet to reveal themselves to her. Esme made a note to ask Quill about them the next time that she saw him.

Soft music sounded through Esme’s open door. She followed it on quiet feet, Astrid moving beside her with agility that suggested practice and familiarity. Esme recognized the strings of a lyre as they neared Lucien’s chambers. They stalled by the doors, listening to the melody of Lucien’s unfairly pleasant voice.

_“Deep in the rose garden_

_You’ll find a girl named Jayne_

_With hair as red as blood_

_And eyes alight with pain_

_She wore a crown of rubies_

_She felt fear in her bones_

_Her rubies fell one by one_

_They scattered on the stones_

_Jayne ran, ran, ran, ran_

_She ran into their hands_

_Jayne ran, ran, ran, ran_

_She ran into their hands_

_Swords so swift were waiting_

_She found a knife so deep_

_Her gentle heart was opened_

_Her children cried with grief_

_Inside the rose garden_

_A song so sweet rings true_

_Hair, rubies, tears, blood,_

_They brought her to her doom_

_Jayne ran, ran, ran, ran_

_She ran into their hands_

_Jayne ran, ran, ran, ran_

_She ran into their hands.”_

_The Lady of Blood and Stone,_ Esme identified. Lucien would start and stop periodically, running through stanzas a number of times. He cursed at each incorrect string. Esme fought back a snicker as his voice cracked on the higher notes.

Sharp knocks at the main door of the wing caused the two girls to jump. Lucien, too, as Esme heard the sudden shuffling of his feet. She whisked Astrid away just before the prince vacated his room.

“The hell?” Lucien frowned. “What are you doing here?”

Esme and Astrid stilled. They glanced at each other before responding in tandem.

“I live here, Lucy.”

“Many greetings, Prince Lucien. It is a pleasure to see you again.”

The series of knocks came anew. A woman’s high, sweet voice spoke from without. Esme leered viciously, recognizing the cadence of Mia Aragona’s voice. Lucien’s red eyes widened as well, his back stiffening.

“Princess Esmerelda,” Mia announced, “I was told to deliver this to your quarters.”

The commonfolk woman let herself into the heirs’ wing, her smile in its usual place on her round face. She held a tray in hand. Two cups of ice cream rested on it per Esme’s request.

“Thank you, Mia,” Esme said.

She took both cups as well as the adjacent spoons, handing one to Astrid. Though it lacked blood or sanguinem, the cold food was delightful against her tongue.

“My pleasure, princess.” Mia curtsied at Lucien. “Hello, Prince Lucien.”

Lucien remained frozen in place, a faint blush creeping on his caramel skin. Mia waited for a response, face never betraying her thoughts on his floundering.

“Do you want to see my serpent?” Lucien blurted.

Esme choked on her ice cream. Astrid stifled her laugh behind a spoonful of sugary confection. Mia, for her part, kept her composure.

“Pardon me, Your Highness?” she asked.

“Wait for marriage, Lucy,” Esme teased.

Lucien hissed at her. “Not like that! I meant … I meant my actual serpent.” He weakly waved at his quarters. “It’s in there if you want to see it, Mia.”

“I would be delighted, if it please you.”

“It would please him greatly,” Esme sniggered.

She traipsed into Lucien’s room, ignoring the glare he sent her way. Astrid waited at the door, entering only when Esme bid she do so. Lucien wisely chose not to antagonize one who stood taller than him.

Her brother’s room was not that much different from hers, although his favored a darker appearance as opposed to Esme’s preference for pink. The red basilisk curled up in its enclosure, smaller and more docile than Leviathan. It popped its head up, twin horns glinting in the light.

“This is Chiaroscuro,” Lucien said, gingerly lifting it up. He grimaced slightly as it wound its way around his wrist.

“Chia for short,” Esme added.

“No. Chiaroscuro. Roscuro, if you wish to shorten it. But,” Lucien kicked his feet, “Mia can call him whichever name suits her tastes.”

“Chiaroscuro looks lovely,” Mia complimented.

Esme did not miss the way she kept her distance from the basilisk. Mia took their empty cups when she was done, racing away from the snakes with a polite goodbye. Lucien returned the serpent with a pained groan.

“By the gods,” he muttered. “What is wrong with me?” 

Esme patted his shoulder comfortingly. She stroked Chiaroscuro, fingers tracing the spiky protrusions on his head. His tongue flickered in content at the circling scratches she gave him.

“You’ve finally managed to show a girl your serpent, Lucy. Be happy about it.”

Lucien glared at her joke. “I’m never happy.”

“You hear that, Astrid? See how tortured and detached he is. No one understands his pain.”

Lucien huffily resumed his song on the lyre. Esme frowned in disappointment when he ran through the strings without singing, though she suspected that he was loathe to do it with both her and Astrid present. It was even a miracle that he had yet to demand they leave his room.

“Astrid,” Esme said. “Look at Chia.”

The basilisk weaved and bobbed in time to the music, pupils dilated in its trance-like state. Astrid cooed in fascination, squatting such that she was more of a level with its glass home. Lucien varied the rhythm of the lyre at Esme’s insistence.

“He does that whenever I play,” Lucien shrugged. “If nothing else, it helps me set a proper pace.”

To demonstrate, Lucien alternated between rapid-fire plucking and slow, melodious strums. Chiaroscuro’s dance changed as Lucien’s music did, fully enraptured by the wiggling strings of the lyre. Esme matched the serpentine dance, earning her an eye-roll from Lucien.

“Mayhap _I_ will ask my father for a basilisk,” Astrid said. Inky eyes tracked Chiaroscuro’s movement, her great head tilted. 

_Astrid’s horns would resemble Chia’s if they were far less curved,_ Esme mused. She traced her own forehead, wondering what it would be like to have horns growing from them. She fashioned her hair into two small buns before releasing them, chucking quietly to herself.

“Are you two going to be here all day?” Lucien finally complained.

He strummed a complex tune, face creasing with the effort. Esme rested her hands on her hips, combing through her mind for _anything_ to do on this dull day. Such idleness was not something she could ever learn to enjoy. Esme clapped triumphantly when an old pastime came to her.

“I have an idea!”

\---

Esme beamed at the assembled mass before her. Astrid, Lucien, Lord Arion, Quill, and her father sat around a squat but spacious table in one of the palace’s leisure rooms. They all looked surprised to see the others, each of them giving Esme an expectant glance. She rose from her seat, puffing out her chest.

“Everyone,” Esme began, “thank you for gathering here today. We will be playing Prisons, Potions, and Pixies!” She held up the official guide for PPP, tapping the bound leather excitedly. “The rules are simple. We choose our fighters, have them go on adventures, and then decide what they do.”

They all nodded, Astrid much slower than the others. Esme slid into the spot adjacent the titan, having explained the rules for her sake. PPP was a classic Eurydicean game, one which required a keen mind with a fierce imagination. Arion would be acting as the Prison Warden. Given his penchant for theatrics, Esme trusted no one else but him to tell a compelling tale.

“Okay,” Arion grinned, “this session will take place in Briar, and it will be set during the Fire Era. You have a while yet to create your characters while I think of something. Yes, that will suffice.”

Pens scrapped against paper as they swiftly drafted their personas. Astrid asked Esme for assistance a few times, being unfamiliar with the history and geography of the kingdom. Esme eventually abandoned her work entirely to help her friend.

“Have you ever been to Briar?” Esme questioned. She giggled as Astrid poked her tongue out once more. _Is she aware that she does it?_

“No,” Astrid said. “Just western Eurydice.”

 _At least I can say that I’ve been somewhere that Astrid has not._

Esme had visited Briar multiple times in her near-fourteen years, though it had been a while since she’d last gone east beyond Redmouth. Everything there was so _different_ , and she’d grown to understand why her parents preferred Briargarden to the Ironhill. Their food was heavily spiced unlike Sanguin and Ancienti cuisine, and blood was treated as an enhancer rather than the main focus of the dish. Clothing was looser, brighter, decorated with sheer patterns and jewelry.

“There are proper basilisks in the east,” Esme said to Astrid. “Not like the domestics. I saw them in a zoo, once, close to the tigers. They’re massive; much larger than Levi or Chia.”

Her parents always looked happier when they were out east. They’d alternate between Faetongue - the native language spoken in the region - and Eurydicean with ease, completely indistinguishable from the proper Briarean vampires. Selene especially, resembling many of the dark-skinned vampires that resided in southern Sanguis and Briar, where they’d adapted to the harsher sunlight. She’d take the twins around the covered bazaars when the sun was lowered, and merchants would hand them food served on huge leaves. Then they’d sit and watch the fire-elf performers that devoured their own flames.

Esme remembered playing in the cool springs with young elves and vampires and hybrids, laughing and scarcely missing the concrete capital. Lucien would collect blood citruses borne from crossing sanguinem with oranges using earth magic, and they’d eat until their bellies were full and round. At night they’d sleep atop pillows in Briarlight’s rooms, and the other children would sneak about and trade stories in Faetongue. Esme had learned a few words of the secondary language, picked them up from odd phrases shouted back and forth, but she’d already forgotten most of them.

“It seems Eurydice exchanged dragons for serpents,” Astrid joked.

Esme snorted. She glanced up at the click of heeled footsteps, waving ecstatically as Lady Reyna strolled into the room. She took up a space near Arion with a flourish, her dark hair billowing behind her. The occupants tossed greetings ranging from polite to friendly at the woman.

“I apologize for my tardiness, princess,” Reyna said. “I had several matters to attend to.”

Esme nodded. “That’s alright! We were just getting started anyway.”

Arion debriefed her on Esme’s latest scheme. A perfectly sculpted eyebrow raised skeptically, before Reyna made herself comfortable and joined the activity.

Reyna was appointed as the Master of Intelligence soon after Esme had accepted that she’d never see her mother again. The two women were not particularly similar – not in appearance, and not _quite_ in personality – but Esme had grown fond of Reyna all the same. Her skin was pale and her hair was dark and her eyes were bright, _too bright_ , but Reyna and Selene both shared the same sharp and secretive smile.

Esme adored all things sharp.

“Enough chatter,” Arion boomed. “I want to see what you have all come up with.”

Ayden went first. “I have chosen to be king during the Era. Call me King Ayden.”

Astrid threw a baffled glance at Esme. The princess shrugged, giving up on teaching her the distinctions between a king and a Sovereign.

They went around the table, each of them introducing the persona they planned to dedicate themselves towards. Quill was a scholarly traveler, Astrid a fabled enchantress, Reyna a roguish criminal. Esme proudly presented her mermaid that grew legs on land, ignoring the teasing smile from her father.

“I shall take the name of one of my ancestors,” Lucien declared. “Lord Draco von Drake.”

Arion wrinkled his nose. “Dragon McDragon? Is that your final answer?”

“No!” Lucien’s cheeks puffed out in agitation. “ _Draco von Drake_. He was a skilled-”

“Okay, Dragon McDragon.”

“Okay, Gray Eran,” Lucien mumbled

Arion clutched his chest in betrayal. He ran through the synopsis of the world, petulantly limiting the importance of Draco von Drake in their quest. Today’s mission saw them hunting down the elusive Daniel Wraith, a malevolent being that could phase through buildings, vanish, and levitate. He’d possessed King Ayden, bringing old Briar to the brink of destruction. Esme listened to Arion’s dramatic storyline closely, already crafting her plans.

The round took them through various adventures, with some of Arion’s creative decisions baffling all of them. Reyna’s criminal was arrested for creating a religion that worshipped her. Quill’s scholar attempted to dissuade the masses from their false idol. Unfortunately for him, he failed to accrue a sufficient amount of points to do so. Instead, he became her mouthpiece.

“Can I try again?” Quill whined.

“Mister ‘wise and valiant’ wishes to try again,” Arion cackled. “Sorry, Quill. Get back to the temple and worship your goddess.”

Quill groaned, earning an amused grin from Reyna. As goddess and convert worked on swindling an entire population, Esme, Lucien, and Astrid ventured farther into King Ayden’s lands. Esme’s mermaid threw the ghostly army off of their rhythm by transforming and carrying her friends along a nearby river.

Their trio came upon King Ayden as he sat on his throne of souls. Her father spoke in an exaggerated accent when he challenged them, the stress leaving his body for the first time in a long time. Esme relaxed, too. The tension in the palace had been palpable with Quill’s illness, but things were slowly returning to normal. If nothing else, this get-together accelerated the palace’s return to liveliness.

“King Ayden,” Lucien said, clearly relishing the chance to use the Sovereign’s first name, “give up your dastardly ways.”

“No.”

“Give up your dastardly ways!” Esme demanded.

She and Lucien spoke in unison, chanting their declaration over and over again. Arion wrinkled his nose at the twins while Ayden laughed.

A battle ensued, one which ended with King Ayden’s defeat. Before being vanquished, however, Daniel Wraith released the embers of his possessions upon the kingdom. Ghouls flooded the world, taking control of the unsuspecting inhabitants. Esme keened in dismay at the thrill on Arion’s face.

“I shall use my time magic,” Astrid the enchantress said. “We will return to a period before the evil Daniel Wraith took control of the king.”

She managed enough points to do this, but with a caveat. There was only a handful of seconds they had before they would lose their chance of success. Esme waited with bated breath as Reyna spun the dial, garnering a perfect number.

“You test me sometimes, Arion,” Reyna deadpanned. “I use my goddess powers to exorcise Wraith.”

“And thus, it shall be made true,” Arion conceded. “The Faith saves the day, and all of Briar is converted to Reyna’s religion. The end.”

Quill drummed his fingers on the tabletop, resting his head on Ayden’s shoulder. “Nobody expects the Eurydicean Theocracy.”

They wrapped up the game after its dramatic conclusion. Esme thanked them for humoring her upon request, remembering her manners. She knew running a kingdom was no easy feat, what with how frequently the adults sat engrossed in various tasks. Even playing at ruling when she was younger had shown her how many components were required to balance a realm as complex as Eurydice.

Esme glanced at Lucien as he stood near the Sovereign, and she did not envy the Crown Prince in his position.

***

It was raining.

Fat droplets hit the glass windows, rolling down in thick rivulets. Esme counted them as they raced each other to the ground. She sat in the Hall of Portraits, the painted faces of her ancestors watching her with impassive red and gold eyes. Outside, the Ironhill experienced a foggy and gloomy evening, rivalling Sanguis on its moodier days.

Esme liked many things, but she did not like the rain.

It reminded her being woken up in the night, the occasional flash of lightning illuminating her mother’s dark blue eyes. Selene had smiled at her, sad and sweet, and given her a kiss on the forehead. The scent of flowers had filled Esme’s nose, and she’d curled up in those strong but gentle arms.

 _Mommy will be back soon_ , Selene had whispered, _and then we can go see the green lights in the sky. I promise._

Esme remembered being sleepy and bleary-eyed. In her addled haze, she’d wondered how they would get to the lights. They were all the way in Tear’s End, and her parents had always told her that the Annex was unreachable.

A strike of lightning caused Esme to hug her knees. She wanted to feel Leviathan’s smooth scales in her arms, but it was too soon after her scolding to be parading him about. Her chambers were not a particularly pleasant place to be when it rained, either.

Esme glanced at a dark-haired vampire’s portrait, his clear blue eyes sombre and lacklustre. She did not know who he was, and she could not be bothered to read the fine print under his image, but he looked as dispassionate as she felt. Esme traced her feet on the tile, studying the golden patterns.

Soft footsteps came towards her, prompting the princess to lift up her head. Quill strolled through the hallway, nose buried in a book. He’d alternate between flipping through pages and staring at the portraits, completely devoted to whatever he was doing.

“Hey, Quill,” she said.

“Esme,” Quill greeted. “This is quite the interesting place to meet.”

Thunder sounded from outside. Esme tried not to flinch.

A distraction was in order. “Do you have a tail?” Esme asked.

Quill cocked his head. “Not anymore, no.”

“Where did it go? Please tell me you did not chop it off.”

He sat down aside her, crossing his legs in a pretzel-like fashion. Quill regarded the sombre vampire’s portrait for a moment, before turning to face the princess. Esme blinked as he Shifted, the black ears flicking back and forth. She made to touch them, stopping only when she recalled Luna’s fierce snarl when Lucien once tried the same thing.

“Werewolves start out with ears and a tail when we’re young,” Quill explained. “Our tails don’t typically stay past childhood, although our ears do.” He wiggled his for emphasis.

“Ooh. Like tadpoles and frogs.”

Quill chuckled. “I suppose you could look at it that way.”

Esme’s tight grip on her legs loosened. Quill was … warm. She subconsciously leaned in his direction, enjoying anything that chased away the chill from the rain. Quill’s ears appeared as soft as the turtleneck he wore, and Esme so wanted to pet him.

“They remind me of puppies, a bit,” Esme said, gesturing at them.

Quill’s ears flattened. “Mayhap you should not go around saying that,” he chided gently. “Werewolves are not too fond of comments of that nature.”

“My apologies.”

“All is forgiven, Your Highness.”

They sat quietly, the symphony of falling water the only noise. Quill continued reading his book, returning his canid ears to their human state. Esme gazed at the portrait another time, those ice-blue eyes portraying a sadness unexpected from brushwork.

“Quill?” Esme murmured. “Can you tell me about the Annex?”

His eyes drifted towards her. Blessedly, Quill did not ask for the reasoning behind her inquiry. Instead, he began detailing the westernmost region. Moonflowers that grew abundantly, snow-capped mountains, and sentinel-like trees that stood watch over the Annexians. Wolves abounded throughout the land, running in dense packs that feared little and less. Snow leopards and lynxes, furred wyverns that ate ice yet slumbered in summer, and giant moose with antlers as wide as carriages.

“I had a snowfox as a boy,” Quill reminisced. “Luna always called it a dog, even though it wasn’t. Not really.” He carded a hand through his hair. “My mother once called a meeting with the Lycan bannermen. She told me to keep him in my room, but the fox escaped and caused havoc in Beowulf Tower.”

Esme bit her lip, thinking of Leviathan. Her remaining apprehension for Quill seemed to vanish at the admission.

“Have you ever seen the green lights?” Esme did not acknowledge the way her voice broke at the last two words.

“Yes. Remus’ Lights are about a week’s ride from Lunares on a good day. They span across the sky like a curtain. If you go during winter, there is nothing but snow and silence for leagues. It’s eerily peaceful.”

“It sounds beautiful.”

“It is,” Quill breathed. “Wild, but beautiful.”

 _I guess that’s why mother wanted to take me there._ The stars outside were faint, hidden by the constant electricity of the capital. Esme imagined what the green lights might look like, but her mind was blank.

“Do you ever want to leave? Go back to the Annex?”

“Always. But,” Quill smiled, “it’s not so bad here.” His hands ghosted over his covered neck. There was a stiffness about the action.

 _We all have secrets,_ Reyna had once told her. _Learn everyone else’s, but keep yours closely guarded._

Esme wished people did not keep so many. She knew that Quill’s illness was not truly an illness, but the details were beyond her. She also knew that her mother’s death could not have been due to the Gray Waste, for graybane, its remedy and protectant, was made from southern willows - the pride of the Lazarus Clan.

The ice-blue eyes of the portrait watched her. Esme’s own deep blues stared back. Beside her, Quill turned another page as lightning split the sky. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spotlight: Bloodworth Clan
> 
> The Bloodworths were a vampire clan, and they were the first noble family to take the throne after the First Sovereign. They joined the larger Sanguin Empire to the fledging country during the Fire Era, restructuring the political system put in place by the First and making Sanguis the second oldest of the Eurydicean regions. Adrienne the Dragonblood is widely credited with Coven’s entrance into Eurydice. The Bloodworths had a long history of taming and riding dragons, and some of the most fearsome dragons were under their command. They lost their throne in the Iron Era after the royal branch died without heirs, leading to Dadia Stareyes’ reign as Sovereign. A cadet branch was later reinstalled with no small help from the Rosemont family. The Bloodworths failed to repay the Rosemonts for their years of assistance, and were eventually overthrown and executed by the family they had used and shunned for generations. Their keep, Dragon's Bane in Dragon's Cove, remains as a historical site in Sanguis. Their words were "Despair Brings the Dragon."  
> Known members included:  
> {Adrienne Bloodworth}, the Dragonblood. The fifth Sovereign.  
> {Cayne Bloodworth}, first consort in Adrienne's harem.  
> {Dregan Bloodworth}, second consort.  
> {Lucien Beaumont}, first Potentate of Eurydice. A royal mage from the defunct Kingdom of Coven. Crowned upon Coven's induction, elevating him above consort status. Adrienne's clear favoritism for him caused unrest, leading to the War of the Dragons upon her death.  
> {Viktor Bloodworth}, fourth consort.  
> {Grigori Bloodworth}, son of Cayne and Adrienne. The sixth Sovereign.


	36. Legacy of Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Casus belli; casus foederis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AWAS started out as a love triangle. Then I realized that I have no idea how to write a believable love triangle, because I've never read one lmao  
> You get a crisp high five if you picked up on the fact that there are 7 regions but only 6 great clans.

Lyra Livingstone  
The Ironhill, 1 Cardinal

***

Ancient was a mystery to Lyra. The first of the regions; the heart of Eurydice; the seat of a continental empire that masqueraded as a kingdom. Ancient’s cultures were like those of Coven but so _different,_ and its aristocracy was content to let its subjects see to their own affairs. Lyra had cared little and less for the region during the Gray and War Eras, her interest only piquing when it declared its support of the Impasse Treaty with no prompting from her.

“You wish to raise a Great Clan in Ancient?” Sovereign Ayden asked, resting his head against his hand.

Lyra nodded. “Indeed. There have been a handful across its history, but clearly none of them were able to hold it.”

She sat within the war room of the Redfyre Palace, nearest Quill Lycan. Across from her, Reyna fiddled with her nails while Fiona tutted at the idea. Hyperion and Arion flanked Ayden, completing the royal Inner Circle.

Lyra was surprised to see the Potentate up and about. It had scarcely been long since he’d lain on his bed, a husk of a man. She could sometimes feel the cold grasp of those invisible hands as she’d wrestled with the thrice-damned emerald necklace. The matter of restoring his health was another tightness in her throat. She’d washed her hands of Julius Wolff – what had befallen him was not her decision to make, regardless of her privy nature – and meant to set it behind her. Quill woke; Theron did not march with revenge on his mind. All was well.

“I will admit,” the Sovereign sighed, “my knowledge of the Ancienti clans is limited. I know of the Lyons, for they have claim to the province that the capital resides in. Of course,” he pushed his hair out of his eyes, “I should like to know why you are suddenly calling for a Great Clan, Lady Livingstone.”

Each of the seven regions was divided into provinces, with the noble clans having dominion in a province. The Great Clan held highest rule over their lands. Ancient’s political landscape baffled her, as it had existed without one. _How_ the clans did not constantly squabble amongst themselves for the seat was beyond Lyra. Coven’s nobility was so dense that the non-ruling clans eagerly awaited their chance to rise to vassalage.

“The Council of the Seer maintains much control over the region,” Lyra began, “alongside the lowborn and gentry. Yet, what does Grand Seer Calliope know of the people outside of Courtmere and Haguecourt?” _Even I do not know, and I am meant to be the Master of Society._ “It would be imperative to have a central clan complete with a Governor to hold the title. If nothing else, the successors to my office will not struggle as I have to build rapport with the region.”

Lyra shuffled her documents about, lamenting all of the _problems_ that her station forced her to care about. Her only concern had been the proceedings of Coven for decades, but now the issues saddled across the kingdom were hers to suffer through. Her only comfort was the fact that she’d yet to hear news of Orion levelling their homeland with some antic or other.

“I’ve compiled several files,” Lyra said, “of the clans that I believe would best serve the realm as the Governors of Ancient. I shall be arranging passage south, Your Majesty.”

“To what end?”

 _Think, boy,_ Lyra rolled her eyes internally, _and stop fretting over your husband. You’ve glanced at him countless times since this dull meeting began. He is fine, and Lord Thorfinn has kept his word same as we have kept ours._

Instead, she said, “It would not do to select a weak or detested clan to rule.” _Assigning titles based on whims and flattery were what granted Rosemont the love of one portion of Eurydice at the ire of another._ “Gods willing, I will have enough information to begin any sort of selection by the year’s close.”

“Perhaps this next clan will remain for a substantial amount of time,” Fiona said dryly.

 _As if Briar does not exchange Great Clans every few Eras._ Lyra bit her tongue.

Ayden’s eyes roved over the illustration of the kingdom atop the table, sharp and focused for once. He held the lyre figurine that represented Ancient, cradling it in his hands. Lyra regarded the other figures, awaiting his response. She felt a dull irritation at the fact that Briar had officially claimed the rose motif, despite centuries of Coven’s preference for them. 

“Do as you see fit. You are not bound to the Ironhill,” Ayden sighed. Quill’s nose wrinkled at the words. “Be that as it may. I’d much like to know any potential Governors, and I shall assist you in this endeavour once other matters have been settled.”

Lyra nodded her acquiescence. They moved on to said matters, discussing the state of the kingdom and directing the flow of conversation away from how uncomfortably close the realm had come to instability. Business in Stepes – likely something she would need to intervene in if the Skyreaches could not handle it, _dear Echolyse._ Changes within the Garrison, the strength of the Aurum Bank. Lyra’s eyes glazed over.

When she came to, their meeting had moved on to Thorfinn Ragnarsson. Ayden had made some arrangement with him to deliver vessels of the Eurydicean Navy to aide Tundra. Such matters fell under Hyperion’s command, but Lyra was intrigued nonetheless. Boreas may have been the most reclusive continent, but Orpheus often trailed behind it with how frequently its inhabitants tore at each other. International engagements were not common across Eurydice’s history, barring the Gold Era.

“I don’t want to assist in his conquest of Boreas,” Quill protested. “Lord Thorfinn doesn’t mean to bring peace to his country. He’s trying to create a second Eurydice.”

“Do you disagree with Eurydice’s existence, Your Grace?” Hyperion drawled.

“Do not put words in my mouth, Lord Tydus.”

Ayden drummed his fingers on the table. “I derive little joy from this, Quill. Thorfinn has been indispensable since arriving in court. It is simply a formal repayment for saving your life.” 

Quill frowned. “And in exchange, we could potentially contribute to the loss of others? I do not want those that are subjugated using our ships to die because of me.”

Lyra and Reyna made eye contact for a split second, before studying whichever items were nearest them. Lyra commended the other members of the Inner Circle for maintaining their composure at the proclamation. They’d agreed it best to leave the details of Thorfinn’s magic between them. It was not knowledge that was to be communicated freely, and Lyra was done with intricate plots.

“I shall have General Trident station the dreadnoughts in the Seas,” Hyperion said after Quill’s worries were quietly tamped down. He moved a few figurines onto the Northern Sea.

“Where else would they be kept?” Quill mumbled, glaring at the war table. “The land? Oh, yes, let’s sail them along the Gold Road.”

Lyra snorted as Reyna chuckled, though the Governor swiftly disguised her amusement as a cough. Quill glanced up at the Inner Circle, golden eyes widening when he realized his indiscretion. The edges of Ayden’s lips raised in a poorly suppressed smile, and Arion’s grin resembled a cat in the hen’s coop. Fiona ran a wizened hand through her gray locks, and once again her expression resembled one that had been given an unbearable task by each of the Eurydicean gods.

“Fort Tempest will be ready for them by Lord Thorfinn’s return to Tundra,” Hyperion pressed on, face creased as if someone had dropped rotten sanguinem in front of him.

They spent a while mapping the movement of the dreadnoughts from Coldcliff to the Northern Sea, and Lyra had nearly drifted off again before she was pulled awake by mentions of the Lesser Sea. She squeezed a fountain pen, tense at the possibility of crown forces combing through her investment. The Covenese fleet was still patrolling the waters, she recalled, and Lyra did not want the Sovereign poking his nose in her ventures.

“Mayhap it will be better to reach Tundra from the west,” Lyra stated. She pointed to a landmark off the coast of Sanguis. “Deploying ships from here and navigating the Western Channel could prove favourable.”

“That will take longer,” Hyperion retorted. “The Lesser Sea is the swiftest route.”

“There is no need for excessive speed when Ragnarsson still remains in the kingdom.”

“With all due respect, my lady,” Lyra readied herself for impending disrespect, “you should concentrate on society, and I will worry about defence.”

“Very well, Lord Tydus.”

Lyra reminded herself that Masters were on equal footing with each other despite the presence of two true Governors on the Inner Circle. The Tyduses were not her vassals, and she could not snap at the man as she was tempted to do. She hoped that Theron’s subjects would declare him their new liege soon. The alterations she’d made to accommodate the Annex were not meant to be permanent.

Once everyone had offered their two lyres into the meeting, Lyra gathered up her things and retreated to the safety of her suite.

\---

“Come, share a drink with me,” Lyra said. “I am in want of a partner, and I don’t find you intolerable.”

Reyna cocked her head. “High praise coming from you.”

They sat together in the common area of the Master’s Suites, and Lyra procured a Briarean white from the collection she’d brought with her. Reyna rejected the offer of white wine, opting for one with such deep red viscosity that it could only be bloodwine. Lyra took a sip from her glass, relaxing as sweetness coated her tongue.

She chatted with Reyna about nothing in particular, the music of the birds filling the spring air. It was hard to imagine the chaos the Redfyre Palace had faced since the Celestial Festival, and Lyra was suitably impressed with Reyna’s apparent abilities to ensure nothing connected to the rogue mage left the capital.

Lyra idly regarded the other woman, debating the possibility of a marriage between her and Orion. Reyna was older and certainly more competent, and Lyra could trust her to oversee Coven in the inevitable outcome of Orion eschewing his future duties as Clan Head. Reyna even bore the classic vampiric features with her fair skin and dark hair, and gods knew Orion was ever one to favour a woman’s looks over any other aspect. 

_Though,_ Lyra swirled her glass, _Reyna is getting towards her late twenties. Such arrangements would need to be made before she exits her child-bearing years._ Reyna crossed her legs as she refilled her wine, the picture of elegance and poise. _I am quite surprised that none of the eastern lords or ladies have taken such a well-bred woman to wife._

“Pardon me, Lady Lyra,” Reyna said. She rose primly, her dress shifting with the action. “I must collect something from my quarters.”

Reyna dropped her glass on the table, dipping into her suite. Lyra continued on with her own wine, eyes tracing the glass Reyna had left behind. It was unlike the traditional cups Lyra kept, black chased with red.

Footsteps sounded in the corridor, and Lyra turned in time to see Hyperion enter the common area. She wrinkled her nose at him, still irritated over his earlier comment. Hyperion paused as he passed by her and Reyna’s seat, eyes widening like a deer that had been cornered by hunting dogs.

“Where did you get that?” he hissed.

Lyra gave him a puzzled frown. “You’ll need to elaborate, I’m afraid. Alchemy has not yet granted mages the ability to read minds.”

Hyperion sputtered, eyes racing up and down. Whatever he meant to say died as Reyna returned to her seat. The woman’s hair had been drawn back into a loose ponytail, several strands escaping to frame her angular face. She lifted the glass, brows furrowing at the tension between Lyra and Hyperion.

The Master of Defence hesitated before making his way into his suite, shutting the doors firmly behind him. Lyra rolled her eyes at the melodrama. The image of Hyperion in darkened chambers, rubbing his palms together nefariously while chanting under his breath came to her unbidden. Lyra nearly made a jest of it to Reyna, stopping herself lest she be offended on her brother’s behalf. It doubtless would diminish any chance of Lyra securing her as a daughter-in-law.

Fiona was next to appear within the suite, gait slow and measured. She greeted them, pursing her lips at the wine Lyra held.

“I know a Briarean white when I see one,” Fiona said, smugness radiating from her. “Never would I have thought that I’d witness the Governor of Coven gorging themselves upon the produce of Briar.”

Lyra glared at the rim of her glass. “Covenese reds require a skilled tongue to master,” she drawled. “Alas, even the most seasoned must rest their palate with lesser wines.”

Fiona huffed. She clutched the ever-present shawl around herself, jewels clinking. It was Lyra’s turn to radiate smugness.

“Lady Fiona,” Reyna said. “I meant to speak to you at the meeting, but it slipped my mind.”

“What is it, child?”

“I sent an envoy to claim some of Lord Sarkar’s disputed horses for the royal stables. Such fine mares, fit for a Sovereign. Though you are the Governor, I found little need to go through you or even Lady Persephone.”

“And he had nothing to say about it?” Fiona hmphed. “He is fiercely protective of those donkeys he breeds.”

“He said much. I didn’t find his words particularly interesting.”

“Ordinarily I’d speak out against you meddling with the affairs of my vassals, but Sarkar is a cunt and so I will allow it this once.”

Lyra was amused by the passive gossip. She shifted on the large chaise when Fiona sat beside her, giving the stately woman more space for comfort. Reyna graciously acquired an empty glass for her, and Lyra begrudgingly poured some of her so-called lesser wine upon request. Fiona smirked, clearly pleased at robbing Lyra of her prized possession.

They drank their fill, though Fiona wisely did not demand a second helping. Lyra felt her eyes drooping, heavy and warm from the pleasant day. Wind lazily blew in from the open windows, disrupting the curtains that had been drawn for Reyna’s sake. Lyra could hear laughter and the occasional bark, and she took in the sounds of the Ironhill. Honks and thrumming abounded, the Iron City’s seclusion doing nothing to diminish the noise of the masses.

It wasn’t long before they shifted towards the first four months of the Cardinal Era, and Fiona equated its intensity to the end of the Gray Era. Such talk naturally led to stories of the War Era, and Lyra’s grip tightened each time Damien Caedis was mentioned.

“Damien passed away when Ayden was still yet a boy,” Fiona mused, empty glass in hand. “He was so near his eighteenth birthday that the Inner Circle forwent a regency. In truth,” she sighed, “I held off on telling him so that he could enjoy the last scraps of his childhood.”

Reyna cooed her understanding. Lyra remained silent.

 _Lucky him,_ she seethed. _There was no one there to shield me when his father signed my parents’ death warrant._

Lyra allowed her mind to wander, the memory of a summer’s day coming forth. Her parents had taken her to visit the scenic beaches in southern Sanguis. She’d built a mighty castle out of the black sand and destroyed it with all of the alchemy contained within her, and her parents had preened at the precise control from one so young. _My bright little star will be needing a conduit soon,_ Sirius Livingstone had gushed.

 _I’m not little,_ Lyra would respond whenever her father named her so, trying to stand as proud as Andromeda Livingstone. On their trips to Black Hall, she’d lord her future governorship over even her oldest cousins, stirring up ruckus in the family whose confidence would one day grow larger than the Caedises permitted.

“Ayden was made to mature too quickly,” Fiona lamented, “as was Selene. My heart breaks at the weight that was placed on my wards’ shoulders.”

How _Lyra_ had wished to mature, to be seated at high tables with her uncles and aunts instead of the stupid children her age. She’d felt ready to take on anything and anyone. Conduits were a menace, and her magic eagerly lapped up whichever runes she stole away and carved onto her flesh. She’d been on top of the world, and no one could touch her.

And then Andromeda and Sirius Livingstone had died, and her uncles and aunts were exiled to the Frozen Waste, and Lyra had realized that she was not ready.

Coven had bled. It bled, and it needed _her_. It needed a Livingstone, not that hand-picked council that Damien had installed as unspoken regents, for a rose garden would never be safe while serpents crawled beneath the fallen petals. 

“-a shame,” Fiona was saying. Her brown eyes lingered on Reyna for several heartbeats. “Our elders likened him to my own brother, that is how deep his bonds ran. Damien was gentle; a loving man. It was the wrong Era for him to rule.”

Lyra tamped down on her magic, the latent alchemy rising in the atmosphere. Gentle, her ass. The man had been as sharp as his fangs.

 _There are many Covenese nobles,_ Damien had once said to her, _and a number of families would suffice as the new Great Clan. Keep in mind that it would be very easy to extinguish your bloodline, what with so few Livingstones left._

 _And whose fault is that?_ Lyra wanted to scream that day, as she’d knelt before the ostentatious throne. Fire wrapped in gold – a monument to the Caedis’ power. _My parents were good, and kind, and you killed them!_ She’d glanced at the serpents flying over the Red Throne and wondered if Echolyse was punishing her for all the times she’d wished to grow up. Her flames had cooled when she’d returned to Stonerose, defeated but with her titles intact. The Livingstone words seemed to mock her as she’d trudged through the halls of the castle that she’d dreamt of being hers by rights.

There’d been no glory, no victory, no pride. Just a single rose in a ruined garden. A star that stood alone in an empty sky until a song as sweet as silver joined it and then ceased.

Lyra mumbled vague agreements to what was being said, not wanting to come across as aloof. Reyna was much too young to truly know what had happened all those years ago, but Fiona was not. _She would remember more than anyone in the palace._

“Regardless,” Reyna hummed, “the war ended in the crown’s favour. Sovereign Damien left behind a strong legacy.”

 _Aye,_ Lyra thought, downing her wine. _The legacy of scars, and blood, and death._

***

Streamers burst forth from the device in a boy’s hands, and the air was filled with color and light. Laughter rang across the indoor gardens of the palace. Lyra sat atop a stone bench, watching the muted festivities with polite indifference.

The princess laughed joyously as she celebrated her fourteenth birthday, the prince a dour presence at her side. A host of their Ironhill friends surrounded the royal twins, singing childish songs of celebration. Many of the girls plucked flowers from the bushes, weaving them together along the horns of Thorfinn’s daughter. Esme even bestowed a bow upon the titan, beaming as it matched the one that she wore in her ringlets of hair.

“Gather around, everyone!” Ayden called. “It is time to take a photograph!”

They did as he bid, though Lyra waved away any attempts to involve her. She’d ventured down to the gardens as a formality, and she was waiting for a moment to leave without seeming rude. A majority of the people in attendance wore smiles and grins, but Lyra could tell that Hyperion, at least, had her same idea.

Once the photographs were taken – there were numerous, with the people in the shot changing each time – it was time to open presents. Lyra did not know the heirs to the throne in any capacity, and thus she hoped that no gifts were expected of her.

The twins went through the various packages with surprising care for the wrappings. Orion, Lyra remembered, had never been one for subtlety and dexterity. Her eldest son always tore through his gifts with reckless abandon. It had even gotten to the point that Lyra skipped the superfluous details altogether, simply handing him whatever the thing was.

Lyra huffed, crossing her arms. Orion always complained about how close his birthday was to the Celestial Festival. He’d glare at Lyra – all chubby cheeks and big, brown eyes – and insist that she should’ve waited a few more months so that he could claim more presents. Then Lyra would lift her giggling son up and say ‘as you command’, pretending to be a hungry chimera that was going to put him back in her belly.

She blinked at the sudden recollection, unease and unnamed emotions churning through her veins. Orion’s birthday had once again been overshadowed by the Celestial Festival, for his twenty-second had escaped her. Lyra debated contacting him, shelving those plans for the time being. He’d likely have some snarky response to her efforts.

“I had these custom-made for you,” Ayden said, lifting two boxes of similar dimensions. “Go on, open them.”

Lyra cocked her head as the twins obeyed, slipping off the ribbons bound to their father’s gifts. Princess Esme gasped loudly, pulling out a slender blacksteel sword. The pommel was shaped like a bat in flight, its wings glinting a deep gold. Prince Lucien’s blade was identical, the body rippling with the expert craftmanship.

“You will need to start with training swords,” Ayden lectured sternly. “It will be a while yet before you can properly use these blades, but I am trusting you to keep them safe until your tutors clear you for live steel.”

Esme nodded vigorously, clutching the sword reverently. Lucien traced a finger over his own, cradling the bat-shaped pommel with fondness in his eyes.

“I challenge you to a duel,” Esme smirked, pointing her sword at Lucien.

Her brother scoffed. “I don’t hit girls.”

“Too bad I hit boys.”

Lucien clumsily parried his sister’s attack. The twins whooped, trading uncoordinated blows with each other. Lyra was reminded of her own childhood spent tossing magic back and forth with the wards of either Living Stone or Black Hall. She floated the cola she’d been nursing towards herself, letting the bubbles pop against her lips. 

“What did I just say?” Ayden sighed. He seized his children’s wrists, easily overpowering them. “Did I not tell you less than five minutes ago to keep the swords safe?”

“Yes,” Esme smiled, “ _the swords._ You never said anything about keeping Lucy safe.”

“Same goes for you, Esmerelda,” Lucien taunted.

Esme bellowed, attempting to break free of her father. Ayden spun them both around, dragging them into a tight hug. Esme returned it after she’d gotten her bearings, but Lucien struggled to break free. Ayden laughed at his futile efforts, voice deep and smooth.

“It’s been an honor to be your father,” he whispered, “but please stop growing up.”

Lyra felt like she was intruding, hearing something so _soft_ from the Viper’s mouth. She glanced away from the family, distracting herself with notions of how her sons would react to unexpected embraces. Corvus, she knew, would tolerate them. There was no doubt that Orion would thrash and screech like a wildcat if she hugged him now.

Hyperion slunk away in the shadows, and Lyra took that as her cue to leave. She rose and brushed out her trousers, searching for the least conspicuous avenue. Her escape attempts were thwarted at the mention of her name. Lyra bit her cheek when she realized who it was.

“A lovely gathering, Your Majesty,” she complimented.

Ayden smiled. “I am not so cruel as to force my children to spend their special day with no one but their old man.”

_Truly. You must be cruel in other ways._

“It is loud in this corner,” Ayden remarked, “and I had matters I wished to discuss with you. Might we venture elsewhere?”

“As you say.”

They walked together, and Lyra held her tongue as Ayden led her out of the indoor section and into the gardens proper. They exchanged empty pleasantries, Lyra’s interest growing the farther away they went from the party. Ayden stopped by a veranda that overlooked the Ironhill, the sky beginning to turn blood red as the sun yielded to the moon. Lights lit up the capital’s skyline, and Lyra instinctively watched the boats that bobbed along the Fair Serpent.

“Briarlight’s chaperones used to have the younger residents dance at celebrations,” Ayden said. “Arion and Selene were always enthusiastic, but I was never much for performing.”

 _Yet you are performing some dance with me._ Lyra nodded and rested on the veranda, shutting her eyes as the wind ruffled her hair.

“I can’t imagine the matters you wished to discuss pertained to your youth,” Lyra said, walking the boundary between courteous and impatient. She knew the game they were playing, and she wanted to accelerate it so that she could enjoy solitude once more.

“No, they don’t.” Ayden leaned beside her, red eyes thoughtful as he ran his hands along the protective barrier. “My father bore little love for your parents, Lady Livingstone.”

“The feeling was mutual.”

Ayden chuckled with no mirth. “I myself don’t claim to have much love for your clan.”

Lyra looked at him from the corner of her green eyes. “Will I be executed if I say the same for yours?”

“I’ll pardon it this once.”

“How permissive.” Lyra faced him, arms resting on her hips. “This was scarcely the conversation I had in mind when you pulled me away.”

“It seems the Cardinal Era is full of surprises. It also seems that, for whatever reason Echolyse saw fit, my children get along with yours.”

Ayden turned his back on the city, leaning on the veranda. He crossed his arms, face slipping into an unreadable mask. Lyra matched the expression.

“The serpent and the rose have drifted apart,” Ayden finally said. “Fangs and thorns are both like to draw blood, and Eurydice suffers when they clash. Perhaps it is time to put an end to the cycle.”

“How so?”

“Marriage.”

Lyra lifted an eyebrow. “I’m much too old for you, Your Majesty. I’m afraid I don’t share your taste for younger men.”

Ayden did not rise to the dig. “I have a son, as do you. Should we wed Lucien to your Corvus,” his eyes found a nearby white flower, “bridges that have long since burnt may now be rebuilt.”

Lyra digested his proposal, doing her level best to hide her shock. Given the way their encounter began, this was not the path she saw them heading down.

“I hope you know that doing so would make Corvus the next Potentate of Eurydice,” Lyra hedged. _Unless you find yourself a third spouse._

“I’m aware of how succession works.”

Green eyes met red, tracking the movements of the other. Lyra broke their connection, turning towards the Ironhill. She bid Ayden allow her a moment to collect her thoughts, her hands clenching the railings. Around them, the newly-blooming flora danced in the wind.

Lyra had been in talks with Tiberia Trident about arranging matches between their sons. The Spear Queen was unfailingly cordial but noncommittal during their dealings on such matters, and Lyra knew a rejection when it was budding. She’d rejected proposals from vassals herself.

 _That being said,_ she mused, _what is the Spear Prince to the Crown Prince?_

She sniffed. How fitting that a Livingstone should sit the throne, given their dominant color of purple. Her ancestors were bold for choosing it. _Though,_ she glanced at the towering structures of the Redfyre Palace, _it is not as if there was a royal family to offend when they laid claim to Living Stone._

“Of course,” Ayden exhaled, “no decisions must be made today. I am not setting an official proposition. Know that,” he pushed off of the veranda, “should Coven wish for new beginnings, the Red Throne will grant them.”

Lyra plucked a flower from a bush, using her ‘transformation’ rune to shift it into a black rose. She breathed in the scent. It smelled like the species it had been, and not what she’d made it.

“Normally I’d raise a glass. Alas, this shall suffice,” Lyra said. She cradled the false rose before holding it out to Ayden. “To new beginnings.”

“To new beginnings,” Ayden echoed, accepting the rose. 

He took his leave of Lyra soon after, citing a return to his children. Lyra opted to stay where she was. She had much to think about, and her suite was no longer as appealing as the relatively fresh air of the Iron City. The season had reached the stage where rains grew more common by the day. Lyra rubbed her arms, the dark runes standing out on her sun-kissed skin. Vehicles crawled across the Hill of Iron like colorful insects.

 _Look at this,_ Lyra thought. _How would my parents feel, knowing that there is a chance that the grandchild of the man who orphaned their daughter will wed their own?_

Like the leaves on the trees, Lyra’s mind drifted.

She’d initially felt sympathy for the Viper as he donned a crown that dwarfed his head. Someone much too young, saddled with problems they did not quite understand, from parents who’d died and left turmoil in their wake. Lyra had even seen herself in him, once she squinted past the pieces of Damien Caedis on a face that favoured Lilith von Drake.

Any sympathy vanished as soon as that absolute _brat_ had flooded her keep with demands that her region properly declare for the crown. The war had been between vampires and werewolves at its core. The last time Lyra checked, she was neither.

As she drifted, Lyra fought back a laugh.

The Third Mage Uprising had smothered any chance of Coven forgiving the Bloody Serpent. Even Lyra’s hand in quelling it could not disperse the region’s aversion to _snakes._ She’d proved her loyalty to the crown, aye, and accepted Lilith’s involvement in the affairs of her people. Lyra admitted that she’d enjoyed Lilith, what with her sweet charms, but a begrudging fondness for the then-Potentate was nowhere near enough to reconcile Coven with Damien after her assassination.

When she’d finally come of age, Lyra seized the reins of Coven for herself and disregarded the faux-regents from Damien’s court. What would he care about one girl, when he’d faced insurgency across two regions? What would he care about one girl, whose region was weak from successive insurrection? What would he care about one girl?

The wolf and the bear thrashed against the serpent, and the rose bloomed in the cracks.

Daron Wolfrose’s resignation may have upset werewolves across the kingdom, but he was Stepen born and bred. Yet, neither Stepes nor the Annex had a history of martial strength. Coven had weapons to spare and needed money, stability – Livingstone coffers could only go so far. It was a recipe for revolution, for the three westernmost regions were united by one enemy.

By the time the Viper eclipsed the Serpent, Coven had no need of its sisters. Damien may have lorded his throne over her, but Ayden had no such powers. Sanguis was weak while Coven was strong, and only a fool would wake a sleeping giant.

 _And now a Livingstone may sit the very same throne,_ Lyra chuckled. She stared at the Caedis and Lycan banners flapping by the entrance to the palace, a strange sense of vindication coursing through her.

Ayden Caedis had broken the crown’s end of the Impasse Treaty when he invaded her region on his mad dash during the Liberation of Homestead. He'd softened restrictions on her region after that, to be sure, and Lyra did not doubt that it was as a half-hearted apology for violating the details of the agreement.

They were alike in that as well, for Lyra failed to uphold her own.

She wondered how the Sovereign would react if he knew that, by the laws of the Kingdom of Eurydice and the terms of the Impasse Treaty by which his father had sanctified, Coven should thus have been classified as an errant region for the duration of the War Era, with its Governor an Insurgent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spotlight: Second and Third Mage Uprisings 
> 
> Second (46-47 Gray): This was a failed uprising led by a number of important Covenese Clan Heads, spearheaded by the Great Clan. Prince Damien Caedis had just risen to power after the death of his grandmother, Sovereign Jocelyn Caedis. The royal family still recuperated from the death of Damien's own mother, Crown Princess Celeste, from a miniature but sudden bout linked to the lingering Gray Waste. The Covenese clans planned to use this distraction to stage a coup. News of this was leaked to the Master of Intelligence at the time, and Damien imposed a severe block on movement in and out of Coven. The economic and social prospects of the region were effectively strangled. The clan heads eventually surrendered. Many of them were sent to the Frostgate Asylum, although the ringleaders were executed for treason. Lyra Livingstone’s parents were amongst the executed, although she was spared. 
> 
> Third (48 Gray): Calling it an uprising is a generous term. It was an unsuccessful endeavor led by rogue mages that still loved Andromeda and Sirius Livingstone. It was a highly decentralized affair without a clear leader. Given its disorganized nature, the recently crowned Potentate Lilith von Drake had no trouble squashing it and arresting its more influential members. Coven became a highly monitored region after producing two uprisings in quick succession, however. The unease in Coven at the start of the Werewolf Insurgency inspired Damien Caedis to approve the Impasse Treaty. It allowed him to fund the war while still keeping Coven on a long leash, as the Annex and even Stepes were the threats forefront in people's minds.


	37. A Wolf Amongst Serpents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quill faces his fears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, man. I had a TIME writing this. The emotional rollercoaster ... Echolyse's tits. I need to sit down and fan myself. If you were here for some sexy vampires, come get y'all juice.  
> Remember how I said that this was supposed to be a love triangle? It was going to be Quill, Ayden, and a third major POV. There were two really strong candidates for the third. I'm curious as to what your theories are ;)
> 
> CONTENT WARNING: Explicit. Smut, blood, darker themes.

Quill Lycan  
The Ironhill, 1 Cardinal

***

Ayden’s head was becoming an increasingly common fixture between Quill’s legs.

Quill threw his head back against the pillows, keening as Ayden’s tongue moved in ways that he was wholly inexperienced with. He had not entered Ayden’s bed untouched, but this was so _new_ to him that he may as well have been a maiden. Soft sheets crumpled when Quill gripped them tightly. Ayden pulled his squirming body closer, that tongue never ceasing in its exploration. Quill twitched as pleasure shot through his body. His thighs glided over each other for how slick they’d been made, Ayden’s frame keeping them parted. 

“You,” Quill gasped and squealed, “are fond of, _oh,_ of using your mouth.”

Ayden paused in his ministrations. Quill lamented the loss of contact, though he was glad not to have the hairs on Ayden’s cheeks scratching along his thigh. The stubble added much handsomeness to his husband’s face, but Quill regretfully admitted that they made for uncomfortable sensations.

“I like it down here,” Ayden said. He leaned on Quill’s bent leg for emphasis. “It’s comfortable.” Wickedness clouded his red eyes. “Tasty, too, if I do say so myself.”

Quill regarded his fangs as he spoke, partially registering his words. He carded a hand through Ayden’s hair, debating whether or not to reveal the fantasies he’d been having of late. He’d grown accustomed to vampires’ fangs after months spent around them, scarcely noticing the glistening teeth anymore, but Arion’s comment about unhinged jaws had set him to thinking.

“Ayden,” Quill began, tugging on a thick mass of hair until Ayden was gazing up at him. He’d done it once in the throes of passion, and Ayden had stated that he quite enjoyed it. “Can I ask something of you?”

“Anything within reason.”

Quill’s face grew warm, and he avoided eye contact. “Will you … bite me?”

Ayden’s eyebrows crawled upwards. Quill exposed a portion of his thigh to him, staring resolutely at the space where the edges of his curtains bunched on the floor. Ayden ghosted a finger along the expanse of Quill’s olive skin, regarding him with curiosity.

“I can bite you,” Ayden drawled, “but how far do you wish for me to go?”

“You can … you can draw blood, if it please you.”

“As you command. Tell me when to stop.”

Quill flinched when two needles introduced a shallow breach in his inner thigh. Thin streams of blood erupted from the punctures, running down in red rivulets. Ayden stared at them almost reverently, simply letting the blood drip from within Quill.

“I shall drink from you,” Ayden grinned, “while I eat of your body. A fine feast you make.”

Quill’s retort was cut short when that _tongue_ swept over the bite marks. Ayden’s mouth covered the twin wounds, at first sucking slowly before increasing in fervour. Quill held his leg still, lest his instincts force him to dislodge the vampire. Ayden gripped Quill’s erection as if sensing his natural reluctance, stroking with measured paces. Quill’s back arched at the conflict, his stomach fluttering while his lungs heaved.

His noises rent the air, raising in intensity each time Ayden’s hand sped up before dragging to a painful crawl. The chances of anyone hearing his lustful cries meant nothing to him in the heat of the moment. Quill huffed in surprise when feeling vanished altogether, frowning as Ayden hovered over him.

“You never told me to stop,” Ayden said, licking his lips.

Quill’s eyes traced the bloodied fangs. “Was I supposed to?”

Ayden smirked down at the question. Quill wrapped his legs around his muscular build, the invitation clear. Ayden obliged with little fanfare, inserting himself into Quill’s readied body with one fluid motion. Quill threw his arms over his head, babbling incoherently at the deep strokes that they soon reached. Ayden’s fangs grazed his shoulders all the while, never piercing but poised to strike.

“Must you be so loud?” Ayden mumbled.

Quill gained enough of his bearings to respond, blinking the stars out of his eyes. “And must you be so quiet?” He stroked the contours of Ayden’s face. “I want to hear you, Ayden.”

Ayden stopped abruptly, eyes wide. His lip quivered, and Quill was shocked to see the bright flush that blossomed across the Sovereign’s upper body. Quill nearly guffawed at the flustered shyness that radiated off of the man that was currently buried inside of him.

“You had your tongue and fangs within me not long ago,” Quill laughed, “but this is making you balk?”

“Shut up,” Ayden muttered. He hid his face in the crook of Quill’s neck. For once, his body was warmer than Quill had grown to expect.

“Do you want me to teach you how to moan? It goes like-”

Ayden’s hand covered Quill’s mouth at the first sounds. He continued his prior rhythm, and Quill’s toes curled with newfound pleasure at the hesitant kitten-like noises that his husband released every other thrust.

“Good boy,” Quill teased. “You need a bit more training, but I am up to the task.”

Ayden's response was a particularly rough motion. “I have not had to be vocal for some time.”

A vague consideration crossed Quill’s mind at the uncertainty in Ayden’s expression despite the sureness of his hips. He idly wondered who had shared his bed between Potentate Selene’s passing and their marriage, but Quill forced it away. It would not do to be jealous of nameless, faceless people.

Ayden practically lifted him as he finished, drawing Quill’s body upwards with one arm. Quill followed not far behind, stabilizing their precarious position as best as he could. Ayden’s chest heaved from exertion. He switched their positions, resting on the bed while Quill straddled him on wobbly knees.

“You do this so well,” Ayden sighed, hair tussled and skin glowing pink.

Quill preened at the compliment. “I’ve much practice.”

“Is that so? With yourself, or…?”

“I regret to inform you,” Quill said, crossing his arms and lowering his head onto Ayden’s chest, “that I was not a blushing maiden when we met.”

“A travesty. I must alert the Grand Seer to nullify our marriage at once.” Ayden rested his head atop an arm, the muscle flexing as he moved.

“Does that truly bother you?”

“I have children, Quill. I would be a hypocrite if it did.” A pause. “Who was your first, if I may be so bold?”

Quill traced Lyra’s rune as he concentrated, pulling a half-forgotten face from his memory. He studied Ayden as he did so, deciding how much of the story he needed to know.

“There was a stable boy,” Quill answered, “that was employed in Beowulf Tower when I was younger. I spoke to him from time to time, debating how best to communicate my interest. Then one night I mustered up the courage to make it known.”

Ayden chuckled. “You went for a different kind of ride that night, I take it.”

Quill nodded good-naturedly. He did not mention the fact that the encounter was spurred by the Liberation of Homestead. With so many Insurgent strongholds falling to the infamous Young Viper, the Annex had been in an uproar. People boarded homes as they waited for the Garrison to flood the region and put everyone to the sword. Others remained stalwart, insisting that the Wolfwall would hold long enough for winter to set in and decimate their enemies. Quill had snuck out of his chambers in the dead of night to experience what it was like to be satisfied by another, for who knew what would happen once the Viper turned his eyes farther west?

If one told Quill then that he would be sitting in the Redfyre Palace with that very same man half a decade later, legs still trembling from their coupling, he would have laughed and asked if they’d imbued their moonpotion with drink.

The stickiness from their climaxes eventually grew uncomfortable, and so Quill unentangled himself from Ayden. He drew a bath and sank into the hot water, selecting an applicant that smelt of lilies. The various fragrances available to him were odd, especially after a life spent in the relative straightforwardness of Lunares, but Quill made a game of creating new combinations. His thigh tingled where Ayden had bitten him, yet Quill knew that he would heal soon enough. Werewolves recovered much faster than the other races.

Ayden wandered into the room, washing his mouth in the sink. Seeing Ayden strutting about his suite, naked as the day he was born, was still a strange sight to Quill. He navigated the expanse of Ayden’s back, smiling at the dips near the base of his spine. Scars criss-crossed over his skin at regular intervals, and Quill was secretly relieved that he was not the only one between them that bore the marks of survival.

“Ayden,” Quill said. “Can I make another request?”

“You’re awfully inquisitive today.”

“Is that a no?”

“Ask.”

Quill kicked the water around. “I’d like for you to unhinge your jaw. I’ve never seen vampires do it before,” he cringed at his ramblings, “and I was hoping you could show me, if it’s not too much trouble. You’ve seen me Transformed, so it’s only fair.”

Ayden pursed his lips before shrugging. He massaged his jaw briefly, and Quill’s heart accelerated when it dropped down swift as a serpent. His shock further increased when new fangs appeared behind the ones he typically saw, thrice as long and thrice as vicious. Ayden’s tongue curled out from the mass of teeth as his lips pulled back towards his ears, its length giving Quill insight into just _how_ the man was so skilled at using it.

 _Dangerous. Dangerousdangerousdangerous._ Quill tamped down on the firing in his brain that made his muscles tense. He hadn’t known that vampires possessed double fangs. Quill did not doubt for a second that they could strip flesh from bone with ease. The realization that they apparently retracted when their jaws were set to normal made his skin crawl.

“Thank you,” Quill said, smiling tightly.

Ayden tipped his head back with a _crack_ , and Quill watched as his jaw knit itself together. He’d always thought vampires’ chief threat was in their blood-drinking, and he was glad for the restrictions they’d placed on themselves with regard to its consumption.

Whispers of _‘dangerous, dangerous’_ persisted in Quill’s head. It had been a while since he’d looked at Ayden and felt any sort of negative vulnerability. He slapped a small wave in the bath, chiding himself for not listening to Arion and keeping his – and Ayden’s - mouth shut. 

\---

Quill staggered under the weight of several tomes, descending one of the winding staircases within the Palatial Library. He teetered over to the nest he’d made for himself, dropping the books on a low table with a grunt. Crescent’s tail wagged as he perused the library, slowly hoarding more and more volumes. Quill rubbed her soft ears affectionately, earning a playful nip in return.

“Are you sure you have enough material?” Ayden asked, glancing up from what he’d been working on.

“You’re right. I believe another journey is in order.”

“By the five, Quill. There is no way you can read all of those.”

Quill smiled at the empty challenge. He had asked for his company on a trip to the library, feeling oddly jittery about the thought of being alone in such a cavernous space. He supposed he could have instructed Cerberus to stand guard, and Quill was sorely tempted to do just that each time Ayden gave a non-committal noise in place of a verbal answer to any of Quill’s questions.

“What are you so engrossed in?” Quill shot back, peering at the neat strokes of ink printed from a typewriter. The stacks looked awfully dull.

“I’m not entirely sure,” Ayden deadpanned. “I’m placing my signature wherever I see a long line. Hopefully nothing bad comes of this method.”

“Being the Sovereign Ruler of Eurydice must be an easy task.”

“Oh, quite.”

Quill laughed lightly, settling down with the most interesting-covered book of the collection. He skimmed through the pages, and time passed with only the noise of pen and paper occupying the library. Crescent occasionally flipped her belly to him, shamelessly begging for attention. Quill was more than happy to oblige.

The hairs at the back of his neck soon prickled at the mostly silent atmosphere. Libraries were meant to be quiet, so his unexpected nervousness was off-putting.

“Did you know that Rosemont sympathizers were referred to as ‘dragon-slayers’ during the Rose Era?” Quill was desperate to chase away the _quiet._ “And later ‘wolf-tamers’?”

“I did not.” Ayden’s eyes remained fixed downwards.

Quill bit his lip, feeling a nuisance. He combed through another tome – one called _A History of Black and Gold_ – and hummed at the pages. It detailed the Caedis Dynasty, starting from Celeste. Quill regarded the images that were included in the text, admiring the expertly depicted portraits.

Celeste Caedis, with her fair skin and golden hair; Cyrus Goldenbriar, with his brown skin and fire-magic as golden as the sun. Their daughter, Elsa Caedis, the perfect blend of them. She was named Elsa the Good by the people. Quill suspected that the moniker did little to honour her. Who would want to be Good, when their parents were Great and Golden? She must have lived in the shadows of those who came before her, a pit Quill knew all too well.

Homesickness overcame him, and Quill ploughed on at the thought of Lorelei and Ezra.

Blond hair abounded, red eyes as frequent as gold, before a shift to black paired with red. Many of the Potentates boasted stories as engaging as their Sovereigns, and Quill grew enraptured by the darling clan of Eurydice. He chuckled to himself as he imagined Ayden with blond hair, glancing between him and his ancestors.

“Take a photograph,” Ayden said. “It will last longer.”

Quill pouted at Ayden’s detection. “I like looking at you.”

“Likewise.”

They continued like this, Quill breaking the silence and Ayden offering short sentences. Quill patted Crescent for comfort, his insides squirming in undirected apprehension. He read onto the War of the Serpents, where Lucia Caedis had usurped Lucius Caedis and stolen his partner. Quill wrinkled his nose at the man’s name – Dmitri Tydus. The idea of anyone loving a _Tydus_ enough to bring destruction baffled him, though Quill admitted that Isabelle and Ares were far more enjoyable than their siblings.

Quill digested the lives of the feuding serpents. Claims stated that Potentate Dmitri lost his wits after serving as the crux for the reportedly mad Caedises’ war, spending his days begging for ‘no more’ after years held twice-captive by each sibling. His child with Lucia – ill-gotten, no doubt – would grow up with neither mother nor uncle, for they both perished by the other’s blade. Dmitri could scarcely serve as regent, and the blood between serpent and flame blackened.

 _Civil war abounds in Eurydice’s history,_ Quill mused. _More so than overseas warfare. It must be difficult to pursue international ventures with a realm that is so prone to in-fighting._

He supposed that such was the case when seven nations, each with their own storied histories, were forced to act as one kingdom. Guilt crept through him at the possibility of Thorfinn Ragnarsson inflicting the same curse on Boreas. If Tundra was to be Ancient, then who would be the Annex?

Quill switched to a different documentation of Caedis rule. This publication chronicled the end of the Gold Era, heralded by the resurgence of the Gray Waste. Quill skimmed past it, reaching the War Era. He read mentions of Lilith von Drake passively, curious as to how the realm developed after her passing.

 _It does look like Wolfrose killed her,_ Quill thought, _if you squint. Damien Caedis must have squinted so much that he shut his eyes instead._

Come to think of it, the Caedises that were important enough to be written about were oft accompanied by people they either moved or shattered mountains for. Quill made this revelation to Ayden in jest, intrigued when _that_ managed to hold Ayden’s attention. 

“My clanmates are known to get very attached,” Ayden said. “Ideas, dreams, fantasies,” a hesitation, “people. It’s a blessing sometimes. At best, we are exceptionally devoted. At worst, blind obsession consumes us. Perhaps that is the price we paid for the throne.”

Quill twirled a lock of Crescent’s fur in consideration. Celeste struck him as one of the devoted. As did Elsa, with her tireless but overlooked efforts to uphold her mother’s global empire. Lucia and Lucius surely were obsessed. What was Damien, who dragged a nation to war under pretext?

_Where do you fall on the scale, Ayden the Viper?_

“Are you currently reading about my clan?” Ayden asked, crossing his arms. “Most of our exchanges have been centred around Caedises.”

Quill held up the book for his inspection. “I’m working my way through the pile. It seems that I wandered towards the Caedis section at some point. A few are more Gold Eran in general, but it’s a bit difficult to separate the two.”

“Ah.” Ayden leaned forward, peering at the title. “Am I in that one?”

“I have yet to see you mentioned beyond name-keeping. This one trickles off partway through your father’s tenure. I imagine that publishers are still printing the modern editions.”

Ayden nodded his understanding. “The possibility of being in books is oddly humbling. I hope they do me justice when the night finally lays claim to me.”

“I’m sure they will, provided you limit the number of atrocities you commit.”

His husband laughed and returned to his duties. Quill was left with much to ponder, skipping to the last few pages of the tome. The events edged towards the Siege of Tyrant’s March, and Quill knew that Ayden’s reign would begin after the bloody death of the Bloody Serpent.

Sovereign Ayden Caedis I would be in books one day, his story eagerly taught to future generations. It would doubtless be a good one, what with the crown’s victory after the Werewolf Insurgency falling under his name. The blood of the Caedis Clan flowed through his veins, and the Red Throne blazed near-gold whenever he took the seat that Echolyse herself declared theirs.

 _Shall I be there, too?_ Quill’s eyes roved over the book. _What will they write about me, if anything? Will I be Potentate Quill Lycan, whose reign restored peace to a fractured kingdom? Or will I simply be the second spouse of a much greater man?_

_Must everyone cast shadows where I walk?_

***

Quill dreamed a painfully familiar dream.

Blond hair, blue eyes, and gold radiant enough to outshine the sun. Apollo the Gallant strutted towards him with pride in every step, and Quill was helpless as a deer surrounded by hunting dogs. Silver wound its way around his neck, and Quill sobbed soundlessly as the life was ripped from his body. Apollo watched all the while, whispering of how beautiful Quill was when his own claws ruined him.

Except, tonight was different. Quill prepared for the dream to run its course, to thrash and cry until it was done with, but Apollo never offered his vile praises. Golden hair turned to black, and faint hissing was Quill’s only warning before knife-like fangs sank into his throat.

Quill dreamt of Ayden, and he woke up screaming.

Pale moonlight streamed in through the window. Crescent began barking at the sound, pulling Quill out of the spiral his mind was taking. Water dripped onto the blanket he held in his fists, and Quill inhaled many fitful breaths. His face was wet.

“Quill?” Ayden said. “What’s wrong?”

Pure fear shot through Quill at the red eyes that glowed in the inky darkness. He fell off the bed in his attempts to move as far away as possible, but it did little to deter him. Ayden rose as well, approaching Quill with concern etched in his features.

“Stay back!” Quill cried. He dragged his body backwards along the floor, his back colliding with the base of a seat.

Ayden halted at the command. For a moment, Quill was convinced that he would drop his fangs and strike at him. He sharpened his claws, his heart leaping into his throat when he remembered that he could not rely on them for the next few months. Ayden had … Ayden had taken them away and Quill was alone and defenceless and _why did Ayden have to be the first person that he saw after waking._

“Quill?” Ayden tried, taking a step closer.

Crescent, Remus bless her, placed herself between them. She snarled at Ayden, fur standing on end and hackles raised. Jaws snapped at Ayden when he tried to circumvent her, guttural growls filling the air. Quill had yet to see true aggression in his dog, and he did not know if he was pleased or not that it should manifest in this way.

“Please,” Quill begged, “stay over there. Please, Ayden. I don’t know what I’ll do if you come any closer.”

“What’s wrong?”

“ _Me. I’m_ wrong. You’ve never … why did I … it’s not supposed to be _you._ ”

His breaths quickened, and Quill struggled to reign them in. Ayden’s renewed attempts at bridging the gap were once again thwarted by Crescent. He weakly slid onto the floor, arms floundering listlessly at his side. Waves of anxiety poured across his face, but Quill did not have the mental energy to address what Ayden was feeling. His own mind was closing in on him, and Ayden’s presence set off a chorus of _dangerousdangerousdangerous._

Quill was glad for the decrease in Ayden’s height once he joined him on the floor. He called Crescent to him, burying his face in her soft pelt. She never turned her gaze away from Ayden, looking more a wolf than a dog for how ferocious she was.

This was not the first time that Quill had jolted awake, skin clammy and cold. Ayden’s newfound preference for his wing had alleviated the stress of solitude after Lesser Ironhill, but now Quill would trade a thousand crowns for him to return to the other side of the palace. He did not know if Ayden taking the place of Apollo was to be a recurring theme, and Quill hoped not to again experience the subject of a nightmare appearing before him immediately after he opened his eyes.

“How can I help you?” Ayden murmured.

Quill expected his husband to try and approach him once more. He sighed in relief when Ayden honoured his earlier demand, letting the question stand as he lost himself in the weight of Crescent in his arms. Guilt crept in his system as his lack of response stretched from a few seconds to many. He inhaled deeply and counted to seven on each trial, releasing shuddering breaths and repeating the whole process.

Upwards of twenty minutes passed before Quill bothered with any sort of reply. His voice was shaky, an observation that would later humiliate him but failed to register at present, and he stared past Ayden’s head in order to avoid glimpsing white fangs.

“Are you ever afraid,” Quill whispered, “even when you know you should not be? When there’s nothing threatening you, but you still feel like you’re in danger?”

Ayden fiddled with the sleeves of his shirt, eyes growing downcast. “More than I care to admit.”

“How do I stop being so _afraid_?”

“I’m sorry, Quill,” Ayden said gently. “I wish I had a good answer.”

What a sight they must have made. The Potentate and the Sovereign of Eurydice, the left and right hands of the Red Throne, sitting on opposite sides of a bedroom with empty space and an angry puppy separating them. Quill laughed at the image, but it delved into a sob that he smothered atop Crescent.

“Any answer is better than nothing,” Quill sniffed.

Ayden carded his hands through his hair, movements jerky and unsure. He brought his knees up to his chest, and Quill noted how _young_ the action made him appear. Thoughts of rain and his distant home filled his mind, and Quill hugged Crescent even tighter.

“They say I cried all the time as a baby,” Ayden began, unfocused, “after my mother died. Then one day, I stopped. I guess I forgot her.” A sad smile graced his lips. “When I returned to the Ironhill, I looked upon her likeness in the crypt. She was the woman destined to change the world – the mother I would never know.

“I don’t fault her for dying – _gods,_ how could I? – but I feared doing the same to my own children. They were so small, and the world was so large, and I was terrified of becoming a statue that they could only stare at with nothing but fascination and loss _._ ”

“They are older now,” Quill said. “And they know you.”

“Even so, I’d like to see the day Echolyse rids me of this fear.” Ayden cringed at that, pulling on the fabric of his shirt. “We live such short lives. To be alive is to be afraid, and to be afraid is to be human. We are afraid, and we are alive, and I suppose that is all we ever need to be.”

“And if I want to be more?”

“Then face your fears, whatever they may be.”

Quill regarded Ayden warily, turning their conversation around in his head. He was not afraid of Ayden – _he wasn’t._ He’d dreamt of him, and he’d felt terror, but it was because of Apollo. It was Apollo and his emerald from far-off Sol. The one that made Quill’s eyes shine brighter than the sun.

Apollo, and his necklace, and their shared imprisonment in the Redfyre Palace.

Quill stood once he was sure his legs would hold him. Ayden made to rise as well, but Quill waved him away.

“Go back to sleep,” he said almost in a trance. “I mean to clear my head. Crescent will be needing to run free, most like, and this way I can breathe fresher air while she relieves herself.”

And so, it was that which brought Quill to the passages leading away from the throne room. He deliberated between them, knowing that each led somewhere underneath the Hill of Iron. The one to the far left was the crypt, that he knew. There were several in-between, and Quill knew not where to go. The lump in his pocket burned heavy and hot, almost like he’d shrunk the Red Throne itself and shoved it in his trousers.

“Who would know where he is?” Quill asked Crescent. Her tail swished languidly, ears rotating. _Reyna, perhaps. The dungeon seems to be her domain._ “Is she even awake?”

Crescent yapped excitedly, rounding a corner. Quill followed her, his back straightening as Hyperion stalked the halls. Hyperion paused, bewilderment in his features. He rubbed Crescent’s muzzle as she licked him.

Ice-blue eyes glinted in the low darkness of the night, and for once Quill was glad to see him.

“Lord Tydus,” he greeted. “I apologize, but I must beg an audience with you.”

“The hour is late, Your Grace. Can it not wait until the morning? I’ve half a mind to retire.”

“This will not take long.” Quill beckoned him to the throne room. “I … I ask of you to direct me to where the mage from Lesser Ironhill is being kept. You need not accompany me. I learn quickly, and simple instructions will suffice.”

“One should not traverse the underbelly of the palace without experience or a guide.” Hyperion’s hair looked burnt gold in the light of the flames. The wavy locks moved as he spoke, magma from a shuddering volcano. “The Hill of Iron goes deeper than any of us could possibly know. There are many ways to vanish in the darkness.”

“Then show me the path, and I will find my way back."

Hyperion remained unconvinced. Irritation spiked in Quill, but he held off on stomping his feet and demanding obedience. Beggars could not be choosers. He instead switched to a different language, one that only he and Hyperion were able to speak.

“Don’t act concerned about my wellbeing,” Quill snapped. “I know you’d be thrilled if I ‘vanished’ underneath the Hill. Just take me outside of his cell. Wait for me, leave me, it matters little. Whatever happens after, you have my blessing to cite the orders of your Potentate.” 

_Please, Hyperion,_ Quill pleaded. _Now is not the time to worry about what happens to me._

Eras passed before he capitulated. “Very well. Stay close. I will not be held responsible if you find yourself lost.”

Quill’s shoulders sagged in relief, but he lifted them in the next heartbeat. Hyperion took a series of turns, and Quill fell in step behind him. Deeper into the Hill they went, down, down, down. Quill’s head swirled with each new direction, the darkness growing thicker and more oppressive. At his side, Crescent whined and panted in agitation. Quill did not blame her. He’d found the crypt strange enough with so many eyes of stone – never mind the heavy presence that emanated from the Tyrant’s carving.

Stories said the Hill of Iron stretched out all the way beneath the city that was named for it. Quill knew of some of the levels beneath the palace. There were the kitchens and laundry rooms and servants’ quarters near the surface, the crypt located below. The dungeons were underneath, but Quill did not know how deep the deepest cells ran. His feet carried him for an eternity, and Quill pressed closer to the light of the kerosene lamps that Hyperion had collected many floors ahead.

They’d passed Apollo’s guards not long ago, but Hyperion had waved them off with ease. Quill did not envy the time they spent for from the sky. A large door was pushed open, its hinges groaning, and Quill stepped into a small room with another door at its end.

“The man is in there,” Hyperion gestured.

He handed Quill a key, and Quill steeled himself before inserting it into the slot. He bid Hyperion wait for him without, entrusting Crescent in the man’s apparently capable hands.

Apollo the Gallant leaned chained to the wall, his legs limp and arms extended over his head. His clothes were plain and soiled, and his once brilliant hair was limp as straw. He was not particularly muscular, Quill noted, and so the gold-plated armour must have given him false bulk. Apollo’s chest rose and fell slowly. Sleep and sweat and _blood_ flooded Quill’s senses.

Quill approached Apollo, silent as Cerberus was prone to being. The weight in his pocket was like lead. He stopped in front of the mage, rousing him with two gentle taps. Apollo’s head shot up in half a heartbeat. Blue eyes stared wildly before bulging when he saw Quill.

“ _You’re alive?!_ ” Apollo gaped. His perfect teeth were no longer perfect. “The way she spoke, I … I figured you were gone.”

 _This is the man that invades my dreams?_ Apollo was always monstrously huge as he loomed over Quill, but he really was quite small.

“I’ll do the talking, if it please you.”

Apollo sputtered a fine chorus of pleas and begs and pardons, but Quill was deaf to his sweet words. If only he’d been the same way when he accepted Apollo’s flirtations like some empty-headed child.

“Your necklace,” Quill said. “It truly is a work of art.”

He extracted the weight in his pockets. Quill opened the lacklustre box, bile rising in his throat at the green of the emerald. He held it up, its sheen dull in the weak lighting. The necklace was streamlined and elegant and cold in Quill’s palm.

“It was explained to me how it works, you know,” Quill continued. “The harder I fought against it, the harder it fought against _me._ I’m lucky that there are people who understand its mechanisms, though I find its existence abhorrent.

“And your plan, too, was treacherously crafty. Truth be told, I would not have tried removing it until evening. I’d die all alone in my chambers with wounds on my neck, and no one would even think to question an ordinary necklace. And,” he met Apollo’s once proud eyes, “you would have happily flounced off to some corner of Eurydice.”

“Why, then,” Apollo whimpered, “am I not in that corner?”

Quill shrugged. “I don’t wear necklaces very often. _This_ soon grew uncomfortable, and I made to loosen it. Only a bit, nothing drastic.” His fists clenched around the emerald. “Imagine my surprise when that only served to make it tighter.”

Now that Quill faced the man, he knew not what to do. A part of him was relieved that Ayden was truthful, that Apollo was contained with little chance of escape. Another part screamed that he was in danger; that he was not safe; that there were enemies nearby. He felt stupid in the dungeons, clinging to the necklace that nearly killed him, in front of the man that put it on him.

_Put it on him._

Quill stiffened when he realized that Hyperion had spoken. He turned sharply, and Hyperion caught his arms before they could collide. The door was shut, and Quill could hear the scratch of nails as Crescent pawed at the metal.

“What?” Quill croaked. He broke free of Hyperion, rubbing his wrists.

“Put it on him.” Hyperion’s eyes were trained on the necklace he still held. “That is why you are here, is it not? Go on, then. You have every right to do so.”

Quill’s stomach twisted into knots. Apollo glanced between them apprehensively, his brows furrowing at Hyperion. The mage began babbling when Quill did not immediately decline the suggestion.

“Please, Your Grace,” Apollo begged. “I was doing as I was told! There is no need … she … she already does enough to me … both … please.”

Quill did not register the sounds coming from his mouth. He held Hyperion’s cold gaze, warring internally. One side recoiled at even the consideration, but another, much quieter, liked the taste of those words on his tongue. The quietest whispered _dangerousdangerousdangerous_ , but Quill had grown used to it by now.

 _Face your fears,_ he told himself, _whatever they may be. Here they are._

Thorfinn had modified the necklace such that it ceased to attack external agents. The wearer would not be spared, however, as the item was built for instilling submission at its core.

Quill ignored the protests in his head, Crescent’s yaps behind the door, Apollo’s shuffling and sniffling. He fastened the emerald around Apollo’s neck, watching the verdant jewel.

“Beautiful,” he said automatically, for Apollo’s ears only. “Now your eyes shine brighter than the sun.”

Tears ran tracks down Apollo’s dirtied face. Quill stepped away, unease budding in his belly. He looked to Hyperion for guidance, his legs feeling like jelly. Hyperion came aside him. The vampire ran a finger over the clasps, pausing at the emerald atop Apollo’s throat. Apollo fidgeted away, but whoever affixed his restraints was clearly skilled.

“Take it off. What are you waiting for?” Hyperion asked lowly.

_For my wits to return. For someone to tell me to stop this madness._

Hyperion’s hand moved away as Quill’s replaced it. His heart raced hundreds of leagues a minute, but Quill was calm as the Mellow Sea. ‘Please’, Apollo continued to bleat as Quill stalled. ‘Do not do this. You are sweet, you are gentle, you are kind. They said so, they said so.’

_Am I?_

Quill located the ends of the necklace. Tranquility overcame him as he separated them slowly, very slowly. Apollo inhaled sharply. Quill knew what he was feeling. His throat would be tingly, scratchy. A mild discomfort that one could ignore. He loosened it again. Thin muscles bobbed underneath his hands as Apollo struggled.

Werewolves were not known for torture, for they valued life and death in equal measure. Kill swiftly, cleanly, and leave no waste or undue suffering. Vampires, however … Quill would listen to the townspeople around Beowulf Tower as they spoke of their Eras-long enemies. _They capture our sons and daughters,_ crones muttered. _Bleed them, feast on their very flesh._ Quill now kept the company of vampires - of serpents. Did that make him a serpent, too?

An aggrieved howl from Crescent broke Quill from his trance. He released his hold on the necklace and retreated several paces, the entirety of what he’d nearly done crashing into him. His hands covered his mouth. Apollo heaved and sputtered, earning an irritated grimace from Hyperion.

“Fuck,” Quill gasped. “ _Fuck!_ ” He collapsed to his knees, the floor spinning beneath him. “What have I done? Gods, _what have I done?”_

“You haven’t done anything,” Hyperion said. “My understanding is that he will continue to live, provided the necklace stays on.”

“His breathing will be impaired. He’ll suffer unless Thorfinn can help, or … or ....”

“Is that your concern?” Hyperion stood over Quill, expression unreadable. “Do not trouble yourself, Your Grace. His necklace was removed once, and it can be done again if need be.”

Quill gave a trembling nod. He spared Apollo a last look before fleeing the cell. Crescent yapped excitedly, tangling herself between his legs. Quill held her tightly, not saying anything as Hyperion exited and locked the door. Choked sobs escaped from within, and Quill cursed his ears for not blocking out the sound.

“Hyperion?” Quill said, abandoning honorifics.

“Yes?”

“I know you don’t like me, but,” Quill worried at his lips, sharpened teeth pricking them, “I would be exceedingly grateful if you refrained from mentioning what I did to anyone.”

 _Don’t tell Ayden. He’ll be angry if he learns that_ this _is what I used his advice for._

The Hill had eyes. Quill wagered they were all watching him, narrowed and suspicious. He met the only visible ones, golden eyes beseeching ice-blue.

“You are not the first to ask that of me,” Hyperion finally said. He beckoned for Quill to follow, leading them back to the surface world. “Perhaps we started off on the wrong foot.”

“Thank you.” Shaky laughter escaped him. “Each day finds me falling deeper into your debt.”

Hyperion gave a non-committal grunt. The trip upwards was blessedly faster, and Quill released the breath he’d been holding once the flames of the throne came to view. He bid Hyperion goodnight, though sleep was the last thing on his mind.

After parting ways, Quill sat in one of the various offices interspersed throughout the palace with a telephone in hand. His movements were perfunctory as he dialled a number he knew by heart. He waited for a response, eyes hazy and listless.

“Hello? May I ask who is speaking?”

Quill inhaled. “Mama,” he whimpered, “it’s me.”

“ _Quill?_ ” Celestina’s slurred voice suddenly sharpened.

She’d likely been sleeping, then, or near enough it made no matter. Guilt flooded him when he noticed the time. The Ironhill was hours ahead of Westedge, but Celestina Lycan had never been one to stay awake into the night.

“I did something bad, mama,” Quill confessed.

“What’s wrong, dear?” Her voice was sweet and worried. “What did you do?”

“I … I can’t tell you.”

“Why not?” Quill could practically _see_ her kind face darken as her tone dropped. “Is the Viper involved? Is he forcing you into anything?” 

“Gods, no. He’s been wonderful.” Quill’s voice lowered as his lips trembled. “I just needed to hear your voice for a bit. I’m sorry for waking you. Goodnight.”

“Quill-”

He hung up then, tears careening down his cheeks. Quill buried his face in his hands, the muffled wails shaking his body like nothing he’d ever encountered. He coughed and choked, and his nose was uncomfortably stuffed, and it was _ugly._

Crescent nudged at him, whining. Quill broke even further at that. She’d searched for him when he was unconscious, protected him from Ayden with no prompting, bore a new secret he now entrusted to Hyperion Tydus of all people. The concern in this silly little animal’s brown eyes was enough to worsen his condition.

“Good girl,” he rasped.

Quill wished he’d never faced his fears.

_I wish I were anywhere but the Ironhill. It is a pit of snakes, and I am unfit for the crown that was given me. I see that now._

Quill could not keep pace with the game that the capital played – that Eurydice played. The leaders of the nation were experts, moving pieces with no time for _guilt_. Ayden, Hyperion, Reyna, Arion, Fiona, Lyra. Theron. This was a ruthless world he was in, but Quill was not ruthless.

He thought that he could end the game, wipe the slate clean and start anew. Quill planned to bring sweeping changes to the kingdom, as Dadia Stareyes had done during the Iron Era. Instead, he’d sat in the palace, docile as a lapdog. He floundered at confrontations and criticisms despite anticipating them, only to fall prey to a handsome stranger.

 _And now people in Boreas may suffer,_ he thought hysterically, _because some Eurydicean fool was too blind to reject a gift wrapped in false compliments._

Quill was taught to be strong. Lycans must be neither broken nor timid. If this was being strong, then it was exhausting.

 _Is that what I am?_ He wondered. _Does hurting a chained man make me strong?_

He thought that acting as a wolf amongst serpents would be to his credit – that he could hold his head above the snakes on their bellies – but it meant absolutely nothing. He was scarcely a wolf anymore, with his crown of snakes that marked him as bound to a Caedis. He’d never truly be a serpent, either.

Quill just wanted to go home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spotlight: Assassination of Lilith von Drake 
> 
> In the 50th year of the Gray Era, Lilith von Drake was assassinated in the House of the Five Faiths. Known to be very devout, it was not unusual for her to make trips to the holy city of Eurydice. Suzerain Daron Wolfrose accompanied her periodically, visiting Remus' Sanctuary himself or attending to other matters in Courtmere. Lilith was one to worship amongst her people, but that day saw her occupying the halls of Echolyse's Sanctuary. As such, she was alone when she was pierced through the heart with a blade traditionally used by werewolves during hunting seasons.  
> There were two wounds that overlapped over her heart, and another was in her belly. Analysis of the scene showed that she was struck on the steps of Echolyse’s statue. She managed to walk almost all the way to the doors, before succumbing to injury and blood loss. Some suggested that her killer must have been either a very skilled assassin, or someone she trusted for how close they got to her. The fact that she was stabbed from the front made it all the more difficult to tell. Her body was discovered by a cleric sent by Daron Wolfrose after she had not emerged for some time. 
> 
> Following an investigation into Lilith von Drake’ assassination, Daron Wolfrose became the prime suspect. He had the misfortunate of fitting the most likely description of the murderer, i.e. he was in the temple on that day, he would have had reasonable access to a werewolf blade, Potentate Lilith would not have been alarmed by his presence, and he could physically overpower her. Many assumed that, since Daron and Lilith travelled to Courtmere with the same convoy, he would have known of any plans she had to worship alone.  
> Daron Wolfrose was stripped of his title by an enraged Damien Caedis, despite the fact that numerous werewolves attested to his presence in Remus' Sanctuary at the time of the murder. There was little chance of him leaving, killing Lilith, removing the blood from his clothing, and returning in time to send a cleric after her. Damien Caedis was unmoved. He initially called for Daron's execution, but this was challenged by Grand Seer Claudius. Instead, Daron was sentenced to life in the Frostgate Asylum.


	38. Too Close to the Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Weigh, hey, and up she rises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was time to hurt Quill. He’d been having it too good.  
> I don’t really know how late 19th/early 20th ships operated so we'll just go with the old-school ones. Most of the ships are personal vessels anyway (and the Annex isn’t really a paragon of development). Plus the pirate aesthetic is cool.

Ezra Lycan  
Ark Islands, 1 Cardinal

***

Shrills shook the air as many wyverns flew overhead. They spread their veiny wings, thin fur shed in preparation for the summer. Ezra tracked their path, theorizing on their destination. They were likely off to the northern Annex, or perhaps the Frozen Waste and Boreas. A little one trailed behind the group, its wings beating wildly. Ezra wished it luck.

The Lesser Sea churned under the steady pace set by _Green Blood_ , a common ship that Ezra had hailed on the shores of the eastern Annex _._ Several smaller vessels followed aside her, their sails set for moderate speed. The sea would soon be active once more, now that Theron planned to lift his strict limitations on the movements about the Lesser. Ezra’s ship bore mostly seasoned sailors and his clan’s retainers, the latter displeased by the slow course. Atop the mast, the black tower on a field of blue and silver fluttered easily in the wind.

It was a fine, warm day. Summer was beginning to eat away at spring, and Ezra was glad for it. The sooner the Annex went about the harvest, the sooner they would be ready for the next winter. Especially now that they no longer had free access to the rich fields of Stepes.

 _It is strange,_ Ezra thought, leaning against the ship’s side. _A year ago, father rode for Scarwood Hold upon Lord Wolff’s command._

Ezra had begun preparing the horses after Wolff’s summons, readying himself for a journey to Westedge. He’d become more active on the Stepen front after the Liberation, assisting the Insurgents in holding their remaining strongholds and even leading a number of small charges, and thus had assumed that his presence would be expected at the gathering. Theron had instead shaken his head, telling him to remain in the Tower.

_If only I’d known what would come next._

Laughter rang over the seagulls and lazy waves. A number of children played games upon the deck, cheering as they caught one another or crying if they fell. Ezra smiled as a boy stopped to wave at him. The child’s eyes blazed gold as any werewolf, with yellow scales to match. His friends pulled on a fin-like ear, prompting a squeal and a high-pitched click.

 _I am not one to judge,_ Ezra mused, _but I must say that werewolf-siren hybrids are a rarity._

The Ark Islands themselves were an oddity amongst the region, its lieges standing apart from the dominant makeup of the clans. Werewolves, sirens, and their hybrids. Wolves that swam underwater for a time – and enjoyed it, if the number of boats along the docks had been any indication.

 _‘Fishwolves’_ , Muraco Endsel, the son of a commonfolk woman and a minor Lycan-sworn lord, had joked as they’d booked passage with Captain Calico. _‘The strangest of us mutts, no doubt._ ’

He now slumped at the bow of _Green Blood_ , very much unaccustomed to the constant swaying motion. Ezra was not overly fond of it himself, a fact he made clear by gazing sympathetically at Muraco. His friend glared at him before bestowing the water with his internal gifts.

A ship, _Wyverntail,_ overtook _Green Blood._ Ezra caught a glimpse of its occupants, most of them looking no more than people eager to return to the Ark Islands. Ezra did not blame them, for they had spent many a month grounded to port.

“You’ve been standing here for Eras,” a woman said. “Are you seasick like that boy?”

Ezra glanced up as Captain Arabella Calico of _Green Blood_ approached him. Her overcoat was tossed across her shoulders. Copper skin gleamed in the sunlight, accentuated by the dark scales lining her body. The captain crossed her arms, wrought thick from years manning sails. She was much like the children, a werewolf crossed with a siren, though her wolf side was stronger. Fierce canines, unchangeable in their sharpness as werewolf hybrids could not Shift, flashed as she chewed a piece of salted fish.

“I am well,” Ezra said. “Thank you for your concern, captain.”

Arabella nodded, coming to a stop near Ezra. She retrieved a pipe and offered it to him, but he declined with a polite wave. Arabella shrugged, helping herself to its contents.

Ezra had been aboard _Green Blood_ for days now. He’d ridden from Lunares at his father’s behest. The Greeneports will wish to parlay, Theron had written, and it was proven true soon enough. The clan meant to swear fealty to the Lycans and abandon their support of the Wolffs once Ezra reached Oceanfall. Though Ezra was the Lord of Beowulf Tower and thus held little dominion over these lands, he and select bannermen would be acting as the Governor’s representatives. A trusted Lycan retainer would then be left to supervise the islands until Theron could dedicate proper attention to them.

He could see why his father was so eager to secure the Ark Islands peacefully. Any battles against them would be fought on the sea, to be sure. The majority of Annexian clans were not known for their seafaring prowess despite the region being bordered by water on three sides, and bisected by the Lesser Sea on the fourth. Even the vessels Ezra commandeered were designed for mercantile use over any other. His region’s ships were not as prestigious as those of the Southern Sea or the crown’s Navy, but the Greeneports boasted more than most could say.

Ezra idly watched an islet as _Green Blood_ manoeuvred around it. Small homes dotted the leafy landscape, all wood and straw and thatching. The islands, too, were in a strategic location. With proper cultivation, maybe even an agreement with the Tridents or one of their vassals for increased traffic, it might grow into a wealthy trade hub on the level of Stonerose and Coldcliff.

“Fine weather,” Captain Arabella drawled. “Keep pushing like this and we can reach Oceanfall in a day’s time. Mayhap a day and a half if the winds turn.”

Her voice was gruff, with musical undertones. Despite their Annexian alignment, the Ark Islanders spoke Sirensong – the language of the Seas. It was beautiful when spoken by itself, but Ezra oftimes struggled to parse out certain words when its speakers switched to Eurydicean. A handful of the old kingdoms had kept their mother tongues after their induction, chiefly Briar and the Seas, and the rest had hybridized into modern Eurydicean.

Ezra knew that the Lunaens had spoken Wolfetongue before the kingdom fell, but it was currently favoured only in the most remote of werewolf circles. His grandfather, Anoki Mooncrest, had taught him a few words and phrases, but those were all that Ezra knew.

Arabella’s yellow-green eyes roved over Ezra’s body impassively. He’d quickly grown bored of his lordly position in _Green Blood’s_ cabin, coming up to aid the crew with whatever a seafaring novice could be trusted with. ‘What are your orders?’ he’d asked, waving off the crewmate that had sputtered about their ranks. ‘I do not outrank you on this ship. Tell me what to do.’

As such, Ezra had tied his shirt about his waist to cool off and free his hands for work. His olive skin darkened under the sun, and his brown hair was wind-swept and tussled.

“I’ve a son around your age,” Arabella said. “Good, strong lad. He is on _Mermaid’s Row_ ,” she jerked her chin at one of the neighbouring vessels, “and knows a ship like no other. Perhaps I could interest you in a marriage. We’ve no noble blood, my lord, but the Calicos are an honest family.”

Ezra dipped his head. “My apologies, Captain Calico. I am already engaged to be wed.”

“Bah! All the good lords are taken.”

Ezra smiled, amused as she puffed out gray smoke. The thought of Blair Lupine had him itching to meet with the Greeneports and return to Lunares as swiftly as possible.

Their engagement had stretched on for longer than anticipated, and Ezra was surprisingly eager to take her hand. Ezra wanted to marry her in Lowton-below-Beowulf rather than the castle itself, a change he suspected his lady mother would bemoan. The town had been his boyhood playing ground, and Ezra wished to share it with Blair if she was willing. He would like for his children to grow as he did, running free outside of the Tower. Hunting in the woods and fishing by the river, one with the land, their family, and their subjects.

 _Remus,_ Ezra chuckled. _Not yet wed and you are already thinking of children. Sap._ He watched a raven fly, its beak curved and dark. _Mayhap the Viper would even permit Quill to attend, what with how tight he keeps his grip on my brother._

Celestina was beloved by Lunares, and Ezra hoped that they would love Blair as they loved her and later Lorelei. He’d been running up and down the castle, padding it out such that its drab walls were suitable for a new couple. Gods, he’d felt less nervous out in Stepes during the last dregs of the war, when conflict with the Skyreaches was to be expected and the looming threat of a second Liberation hung over their territories.

At least then he could point a bayonet at a rushing enemy. Ezra imagined that it would be frowned upon if he did the same to Blair.

“Look!” a child said, pointing gleefully. “Mermaids!”

Ezra and Arabella turned down to the sea. Many mermaids leapt out amongst the foamy tracks of _Green Blood_ , their gray bodies and dark hair covered with barnacles. Most of their tails were sludge-brown, and a handful bore scratches and injuries. One of the children threw a salted fish down below and earned himself a proper chewing-out from a crewmate, but the mermaid that snatched up the confection seemed thrilled enough.

“Mermaids are skittish animals,” Arabella huffed. “They normally stay away from humans, but ours have a fondness for sirens and sometimes werewolves. Islanders feed them though we shouldn’t, and now they’ve learned to approach ships for scraps.” She shook her head, though her eyes held a sad fondness. “Unfortunate, really. Poachers are wont to take the dumb things as showpieces.”

Despite her earlier proclamation, Arabella tossed her own fish down. A mermaid seized it in a flash, vanishing under the water as its packmates fought for the half-eaten food.

The day passed slowly, and Ezra worked his way around the ship. Hoist this, loosen that, secure these. It was exhausting work, much different from holding some village from attack, but he felt rewarded nonetheless. A few stars were twinkling in the darkening sky, and it would not be long until they slowed and settled for the night.

***

Ezra sat with Muraco and the crew, listening to the sea shanties they crooned. He drank ale and broke bread with them, warm despite the cooling air. Muraco was less green about the ears, eagerly filling his belly with seafood and rice and seaweed.

“I knew a fish in the sea,” Jack the boatswain sang, beating a small drum. The quartermaster was named Sparrow, and her flute set a pleasant rhythm. “It called to me, to me, to me.” Each ‘me’ was accompanied by a sweet note.

The children had gathered starboard, Sirensong and Eurydicean rising from the circle they’d formed. One girl stood proudly, puffing her chest out and spreading her arms afore the waves.

“I am the protector of the shores!” she declared. “Sedna trembles before me! Begone!”

Ezra was still taken aback by mentions of Sedna in Remus’ domain. He knew little of the sirens’ patron god, learning bits and pieces from those aboard _Green Blood_. Sedna was cast away by the siblings that were jealous of her connection to the sea, bound by watery shackles within the Tomb of Sedna. Sirens claimed that her tomb lay in the Northern Sea, and its wildness was attributed to her pain and anguish. Sedna would rise one day, her followers professed, and her worshipers would join the ranks of her army in a Great Flood meant to overthrow her wickedest brother Phorcys.

“The moon meets the sea,” Jack continued. “It calls to me, to me, to me.”

 _These islanders shall never cease to puzzle me._ Ezra threw back the ale, quietly laughing at Muraco’s attempts to woo Sparrow. _I suppose neither the Seas nor Coven wanted them, and the Annex was all they had left. Ours must be the place for people that Eurydice does not want._ Ezra shared a smile with Jack. _Regardless, they are my countrymen. An Annexian is an Annexian._

“Captain,” a crewmember called, sliding down from the crow’s nest and pocketing their spyglass. “A ship approaches.”

“Aye,” Arabella sniffed. “’Tis to be expected. We are on the open water, and ships are no longer grounded.”

Their exchange was lost on Ezra as he peacefully observed the children. They reminded him of his youth, back when he’d thought his parents meant to stop at Quill. There was a game that they played, one which only Lorelei ever won. The Lycan boys would ride brooms and pretend to be Bloodworths atop fearsome dragons, chasing each other across the Tower’s yard. On one occasion, they’d chosen Sovereign Adrienne with the massive Asmodeus and Potentate Lucien with the enchanting Mammon. Lorelei suddenly pelted them with snowballs after screaming ‘ _war!_ ’, and Quill had clumsily slipped from his broom as Adrienne had fallen from Asmodeus.

“At the bottom he waits for me!” Jack finished with a flourish. Sparrow fiddled a quick rhythm, dancing out of Muraco’s reach. “For me, for me, for me.”

“-more over the horizon,” the crewmember was saying. They and the captain abandoned the festivities, leaving to observe whatever held their focus.

Ezra sat back comfortably, observing the stars. They glistened in the night sky, tiny bursts of far-off light. He traced and identified as many as he could, not particularly bothered when most names escaped him. His head was pleasantly fuzzy.

Someone was telling a story, one which Ezra quietly listened to. He thought of frosty days in the Tower, how the walls grew cold as the snows came down. Ezra and Quill would sneak out to Lorelei’s chambers and hide under her covers, and she’d grasp a lantern and read stories to them. Ezra usually fell asleep with his tail curled around Quill’s, but his little brother was always entranced. They’d outgrown that desire once Viscardi and Luna were old enough to move about the castle unmonitored. In good time, too, as the youngest Lycans were not known for their subtlety.

 _There was one that Lorelei and Quill both liked,_ Ezra hummed. _I can’t seem to remember it._

“Everyone!” Arabella called. “Clear the deck, return to your stations!”

“Is something amiss, captain?” Sparrow asked, ceasing the next song that she and Jack had been warming up.

“Aye. There is a tight formation making fast sail towards us.” Arabella spat, eyes narrowing. “Who loosens their sails in this darkness? The fools are like to crash if they keep this up.”

Ezra frowned, rising. He made way to Arabella’s side, Muraco trailing behind. The crew were rounding up and escorting those of little use below the deck. Children wailed as their adventure was cut short, though they were placated with promises for others once their progression reached the island bearing Oceanfall.

“Are they flying any banners?” Ezra inquired. He squinted as a few ships bobbled in the distance. “The Livingstones were to accompany us, my lord father said. Perhaps it is them, if those ships bear a black rose on a field of purple.”

The crewmember utilized their spyglass once more, cursing at the faded light. They twisted the glass over and over, finally nodding in satisfaction.

“A wolf,” they said, “spread out on water azure.”

“The Greeneports, then.” Arabella’s frown deepened. “Their banner is a swimming wolf.”

“A drowning wolf, more like,” Muraco muttered. “Wolves and water do not mix. Remus strike the Greeneports from the moon’s light. Which werewolf willingly lives in the _sea,_ as a siren would _?_ Madness, I tell you.”

Ezra ignored his quips, facing Arabella. “I did not know they would be escorting us.”

“Neither did I.”

_Where are the Livingstone ships? We are almost to Oceanfall and have yet to see them. Do they plan to meet us there?_

Ezra dutifully helped the crew tidy up, wrangling ropes and tying knots as he could. _Green Blood_ was an old girl; had served her time on the Lesser Sea. _Wyverntail_ and _Mermaid’s Row_ were newer vessels, but even they would be outclassed by most in the Livingstone’s envoy. Ezra watched the Greeneport ships fanning out about them, wishing for more knowledge on sea craft. There was little he could glean from the ships beyond their size and approximate speed.

Which was to say, large and apparently faster than recommended at this hour _._

He pulled his shirt over his shoulders, no longer warmed by the heat of the sun. Ezra moved his hair out of his eyes, turning starboar-

Screams rent the air as a hole blossomed across _Wyverntail’s_ hull. She swayed dangerously, her crew scrambling to keep her from capsizing. Ezra’s eyes widened when several more followed in its wake. _Wyverntail_ groaned under their force.

“Shit!” Arabella cried. “They are attacking! To arms! To arms, I say!”

 _Green Blood_ was neatly ensconced between her sisters, and thus Ezra received a clear view of _Wyverntail’s_ distress. He swivelled around, bile rising in his throat at the many lights over the horizon. One particular vessel, a galleon with smoking artillery, readied herself for the next bout.

Ezra flinched as _Mermaid’s Row_ emulated _Wyverntail,_ careening wildly. The other ships in the progression rang their bells in alarm, their own captains shouting orders to the crew. Ezra ran to where he’d left his sword, swiftly sheathing it. He returned to Arabella’s side, begging he be of assistance in any way.

“Set her to speed!” Arabella called. “Avoid engagement if possible, but ready the artillery! There are children and civilians aboard our cruise, and they will not fare well in a sea battle.”

“What of _Mermaid’s Row_ and _Wyverntail_?” Ezra asked, panic swirling through him at the smoke and fire.

“Their captains are skilled.” Worry surged through Arabella’s eyes as she regarded _Mermaid’s Row._ “Like as not, they can steer to safety with us.” She spat again, determination emanating from her. “Set a course as far from the Greeneport fleet as possible. Sparrow, get me my glass!”

Rapid activity came next as all raced to fulfil their tasks. Ezra put himself and Muraco to work immediately. He tried not to stare in shock as a flanking vessel was ripped to driftwood, its mast slamming down and splintering the deck. People screamed and cried as the escape plans were deployed. The small boats bobbed in the angry water, rising and falling as more and more parts of the ships sank. They charted a path away from the smoking ruins, tiny beads in a too-large sea.

They would have nowhere to escape to, for their sister vessels were preoccupied with the Greeneports that were bearing down on them.

“The Livingstones should be here!” Ezra said, grip tightening on the ship’s side. “The Covenese envoy was meant to guard against something like this!”

“Forget about the bloody Livingstones! If they are not going to appear at this moment, then I could not care less where they are,” Muraco snarled, filling his rifle with shaking hands. “We never should have trusted mages in the first place! They have honour for shit, and shit for honour!”

A rush of wind and seawater hit Ezra’s face as a little but swift vessel, _Merwolf,_ went down in flames. Arabella screeched instructions, Sparrow ran about relaying them, and Ezra swallowed as the wolf on water azure drew ever closer.

Jack tossed Ezra a rifle, and he caught it with ease. Ezra checked to make sure it was loaded, nodded at him in appreciation, and took up a post aside Muraco. The hybrid was pale and shivering, not quite as used to battle as Ezra was.

 _Even then,_ Ezra stiffened as the Greeneports broke formation and spread across the expanse of the Lesser Sea, _naval warfare is new to me. Dear Remus, could the Greeneports really have defeated the Covenese fleet? Or was father wrong to ally with them?_

“They’re surrounding us!” Sparrow said. “Captain, what do we do?”

“Full speed ahead! Get us out of here!”

 _Green Blood_ lurched wildly as she was turned around. Ezra held on as strongly as he could, nearly losing his legs from underneath him. The food he’d eaten not long ago threatened to make a reappearance, and he took deep breaths to steady himself. Despite the captain’s orders to make haste, many of the crew and even the Lycan retainers were readying their weapons. Unless they could outrun the Annex’s largest fleet, a battle may very well be unavoidable.

A rope came loose, and Ezra took off across the deck without a second thought. He beckoned Muraco follow him, and the two of them worked fervently to restore its former position. All around them was chaos. _Green Blood_ was caught at a crossroads: hunker down and prepare for a fight that they would eventually see her outmatched, or keep pace and hope to lose their attackers beyond a thick clump of islets.

Water soaked Ezra to the bone. He coughed and sputtered, the salt burning his throat. He’d scarcely caught his bearings before a new ship rammed into theirs. Everyone was thrown portside by the intruder. Ezra managed to grab Muraco’s hand, pulling him back to safety before he tumbled overboard.

“Thanks,” Muraco gasped. “You saved my tail just now.”

“You can thank me when we’re off this damned boat.”

 _Wyverntail_ went down with a screech much like the beast she was named for. The ship was hardly his concern, for _Green Blood_ was leaking water from her side. Cold fear overtook Ezra, but he squashed it down as he’d done the first time he’d ridden to battle in Stepes. Their speed would be severely reduced with the Lesser Sea itself flooding into the ship, and their delegation was already no match for the Greeneports.

 _They were supposed to be weak and desperate for peace!_ Ezra fretted. _How are they able to man all of these ships?_

He stared over the ship’s side, aching to close the quickly-filling breach but having no way to do so. Ezra prayed to Remus and even Sedna that those below decks would have some measure of protection. He next prayed for a miracle, knowing that none was coming.

Remus was not a god of intervention, and Sedna was trapped at the bottom of the sea.

“Ezra!” Muraco called, pointing yonder. “Watch out!”

Sound seemed to vanish as Ezra gazed at what held Muraco’s attention. _Green Blood_ was surrounded on all sides by enemy vessels. More approached like hungry serpents, slithering through the blackened sea. The greatest of the ships slid beside them, dwarfing theirs. Heavy artillery was aimed at them, and Ezra stared back in shock. His sword hung listlessly on his hip.

Ezra vaguely registered Arabella’s shriek as _Mermaid’s Row_ joined _Wyverntail._ A woman on the invading ship stood proudly, her hands folded behind her. Her green hair was neatly contained in a leader’s cap, and her golden eyes were hard as flints. A raven rested on her shoulders. She raised her hand, and the groan of moving weapons was an obvious indication of what was to come next. Ezra had seen her a handful of times on his journeys to Scarwood Hold, and her siren descendance had been clear to all the werewolves in attendance.

Anne Greeneport, Head of the Greeneport Clan and Lady of Oceanfall.

 _I remember the story now,_ Ezra thought as his eyes met Anne’s.

Lorelei and Quill loved a story about a boy with wings. The boy had flown too close to the sun, burning the wings off of his back and tumbling into the sea. Lorelei would always chant _down, down, down,_ as she reached the end.

And as Ezra glanced up and saw the multitude of enemy ships trapping their ill-prepared fleet, he knew he’d flown too close to the sun.

“Fire!” Anne Greeneport bellowed.

Ezra lifted his rifle, pointed it at her head, and fired.

They went down within the same heartbeat, Anne stumbling backwards and Ezra flying as _Green Blood_ was savaged by the other ship. Pain radiated throughout his back when he slapped against the churning waves. He did not have long to dwell before the weight of his sword dragged him farther below.

Ezra scrambled to loosen the heavy metal, but he grew disoriented as more bodies hit the water. One slammed into him, pushing him under the currents, and Ezra instinctively inhaled a mouthful of polluted sea. The depth of the water crushed him, and Ezra struggled to breathe. Wood and metal and _wreckage_ abounded in Sedna’s domain. Ezra thrashed as he reached for the surface.

It was too far away.

For a minute, Ezra was back in Beowulf Tower. Quill lay wide-eyed beside him, excitement painted across his young face. Even the aggravating snowfox that Lady Celestina allowed him to keep was there, grumbling and clicking in the night. Lorelei stood before both of them, her face orange-gold in the low light of her lamp. She grinned, showing off her sharpened teeth, and reached the dramatic conclusion of the boy with the wings’ tale.

 _And so he falls into the sea,_ Lorelei said, but her voice was distant and watery, _sinking down, down, down._

A small body floated close to him – the body of a child. Ezra felt strangely detached as he took in copious amounts of water. His lungs stubbornly fought for air without his input, much to his chagrin.

He’d fallen into the sea and was sinking down, down, down.

 _I’m sorry, mama,_ Ezra thought as his vision blurred beyond the murky darkness of the Lesser Sea. _Please don’t cry. There are other weddings you can attend in place of my own._

_You’ll have … you’ll have others._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And such concludes Act II: Room to Breathe. The war is over and Eurydice seems to be heading towards a healthy post-war economy. However, the rapid changes after several years of stagnation mean that few have room to breathe. In some cases, they literally cannot breathe. Quill confronts his place in Eurydice, Ayden’s reign takes a dark turn, and the moon is broken by the sun and the sea. Will Act III be a breath of fresh air, or will they find themselves sinking down, down, down? Find out next time on AWAS!
> 
> (Is it just me, or did Act II take forever?)
> 
> Ezra: just chilling in the ark islands :)  
> Ezra: wait why do I hear boss music


	39. White Poppies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rising flames.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ezra: looks like I’m going for a swim  
> Ezra: I tried to scream, but my head was underwater  
> Kim's diamond earring to Ezra: first time?  
> (okay, okay, I’ll stop)

Reyna Tydus  
The Ironhill, 1 Cardinal

***

 _Why am I always babysitting?_ Reyna lamented, cradling a glass of iced blood citrus.

She sat in a gazebo within the gardens. Its dark curtains fluttered lightly in the wind, offering its occupants a view of the grounds and city while limiting the sunlight that streamed within. Summers in the Ironhill could be monstrous, more so than Starkhall had ever been, and Reyna found herself needing to apply sunblock more frequently. Winter was not particularly pleasant, either, but at least the damned _sun_ yielded to the snow.

Aside her, Quill looked like he was not faring any better. The sleeves of his black outfit were short, but his neck was covered by the high golden-embroidered backing of its fabric. Sheer boredom radiated off his face, though it was obstructed by a politely vague smile. Reyna commended him on his efforts. He had a while yet until he properly built a mask worthy of the capital, but he was less of an open book than he’d once been.

A mask was not all that he was building. The Potentate was crafting his court – one that would be separate from the Sovereign’s. The left and the right hands were meant to work together. Even so, they need be capable of functioning separately.

Ayden seemed to have reconsidered his stance on Quill. Reyna had assumed that it would take a number of years before Quill could even _entertain_ the notion of using his titles, what with the crown’s delicate position over its former Insurgents. How … interesting.

 _No matter,_ she thought, sipping her drink. _A ruler’s court often becomes their closest companions. It will be a small thing to slip an eye or two within his ranks._

“-the audacity!” A woman finished dramatically, clutching her hands to her chest. Her jewels rankled with the movement. “I was gasping!”

The woman was Countess Roselle Leonhardt, a lower relative of Ancient’s magi Lyon Clan. The Leonhardts’ parent clan held dominion over the capital in theory if not in practice, and the Sovereign had thought their ranks as good as any. And, if Lyra’s plan of promoting an Ancienti family to Great Clan status held true, Reyna would place her crowns on the Lyons.

Two others were being prepped for Quill’ budding court. The younger Lord Alois Brandt, a nobleman from Sanguis’ Brandt Clan, and Lady Lilith Thorne, a noblewoman from Ancient.

Reyna eyed Lord Alois as he twittered with Roselle and Lilith. The Brandt Clan was vampiric, one with historically close ties to her own. There was little chance of Reyna sitting in on Quill’s meetings with potential courtiers in the future. If there was a person to secure as her newest set of eyes, Alois may suffice.

“Of course, Your Grace,” Lilith was saying, smiling at Quill, “such matters must be lost to you. You are not from here.”

Quill met her smile with one of his own. “I _am_ Eurydicean.”

“Well, yes. A great thing to be. But the west and the east are markedly different.”

“I see. Thank you for enlightening me, Lady Lilith.”

Quill looked much an easterner himself, Reyna mused. His hair was tussled and curled as was fashion, intricate jewels woven through the black locks, and the gold of his eyes was accentuated by dark lining. The lining also covered the shadows he’d recently developed underneath them.

One could almost forget that Quill was a western werewolf until he spoke. It was just as well. Eurydice would be more like to swallow his reign without constant reminders of his previous allegiance. The fewer _Apollos_ in the world, the easier Reyna’s life would be.

Dainty morsels of food both traditional and vampiric had been served. Reyna indicated for her glass to be refilled, wishing it was bloodwine. Cassius moved to do so before returning to his position. Quill’s own elven attendants were nearby, fussing over him periodically, as well as the palace servants that flittered about. Quill’s personal guard – the one with the absurd nickname - stood vigil within reach.

“These pineapples are marvellous,” Roselle sighed, placing a slice of the yellow fruit in her mouth. “Such curious things from Sol. You eat them, and they eat you in return!”

Reyna’s face creased. “Are they magical?” she asked, staring at them dubiously.

“Not remotely! That is the jest.”

Quill took one of the novel fruits, letting them sit in his mouth per Roselle’s instruction. His eyes widened after some time, and he corroborated her claim. His male attendant asked if a healer should be summoned, but Quill gently waved him away with a laugh.

Reyna was now less eager to try the pineapple, knowing that it truly had a taste for flesh. She was as inclined to nibble on traditional food as the average vampire, but the beast that possessed the Sovereign to consume entire meals of pure uselessness did not possess her.

Quill’s dog barked from somewhere, running along the grounds. Its fur needed to be shorn, Reyna huffed to herself. The Potentate’s dog should be small and elegant, one fit for royalty. How did Quill tolerate the coarse animal, let alone _Hyperion?_ She’d never known her brother to be fond of creatures. _A few more surprises like that, and I’d think Hyperion a real family man_.

“There seems to be much trade with Sol of late,” Quill said, smiling tightly. “Perhaps a partnership with the countries on the western continent may be in order.”

Lilith scoffed. “Ancient is overrun with foreigners as it is, Your Grace. Everywhere I look, some brownliner has made a space for themselves on my clan’s lands. Don’t get me started on Southedge.”

 _Dear gods,_ Reyna thought. _This conversation is akin laying in a cold rain. Such drivel should now be within the realm of Lady Livingstone. Why must I be given the most irritating of tasks?_

Unless any of the newcomers to the kingdom posed a threat to its internal integrity, Reyna could not care less which regions they settled in. She’d had the DIA keep close watch on Thorfinn and his retinue of titans, as they’d proved themselves useful to the crown, but most of the people stationed in Southedge seemed nothing more than unwashed Prometheans.

 _It’s a small miracle that the Sovereign took charge of Julius Wolff’s case. Like as not, I’d have been saddled with_ it _, too._

“I heard His Grace had a mishap of sorts in Lesser Ironhill,” Alois said, facing Quill. “Was all well?”

 _And who told you that?_ Reyna stiffened. Her eyes met Cassius’ briefly, and he gave her an imperceptible nod towards Roselle. _Ah. I see. The Lyons hold the province. It would not be so strange that word would reach its lieges, though word should have reached no one._

“Fireworks were set off too early in celebration of the festival.” Quill’s laugh was carefully carefree. “They caused somewhat of a ruckus, and there was a fire as a result. I’m afraid the flames sent me into shock. My doctor suggested much bed rest after that.”

“We thank Echolyse that it was nothing more.”

Reyna and Quill exchanged a glance. He’d remembered the cover story, then. Good. She subtly gestured to Alois and Roselle, knowing that Cassius would understand.

Still, it would be good to dispatch more people to the village. She’d spent much time studying it in the wake of the Celestial Festival. It was a quaint place that they’d visited, one known by the locale for its renditions of the discontinued Cyran Tourney. Small, charmingly isolated, and the perfect place to introduce Eurydice to its newest ruler.

Ayden had taken many steps to ensure Quill enjoyed his first eastern festival. He’d contacted the overseers, letting them know that the royal couple would be stopping by their backwater. Plans to watch the mock-tourney were made well in advance, and nearly everything about the experience had been closely-monitored and tightly controlled.

Except for Apollo the Gallant.

The mage was a seasonal resident, appearing to showcase his magic and earn tips from the crowd. The overseers had summoned him, wanting to give the Sovereign and Potentate a memorable spectacle and perhaps earn their long-lasting patronage. Reyna chuckled under her breath. The man had certainly delivered.

It was not long before their dalliance was concluded. An attendant escorted Roselle, Alois, and Lilith to the spare apartments. Another cleaned up the various dishes. Quill’s dog was permitted within the gazebo once the guests had been ushered out, panting up a storm and blowing fur in every corner.

“Gods,” Quill said, rubbing his temples. “I didn’t know assembling my court would be this exhausting.”

“It’s more tedious than exhausting,” Reyna responded. “I can attend a handful of meetings more with you, but after that you’ll need to handle them on your own. These are _your_ subjects, after all.”

_And your crown should have been mine. I should be presiding over my own court, from my own throne, not watching you stumble along with yours._

“I know,” Quill exhaled. “Thank you for joining me. I’m a terrible conversationalist these days.”

Reyna hummed. She turned to Quill’s attendants, beckoning they leave them for the time being. The elves nodded and bowed, making their way out of the gazebo. Cassius took her meaning as well, exiting without prompting. He shut the curtains expertly, a neat line forming at the seam where they met.

Quill cocked his head, waiting for an explanation.

Reyna let the anticipation build as she ensured that few were around to listen. She was skilled at finding out what people wanted, but she only provided their desires in small doses. Have them come to her for more, and increase the price each time.

Apollo had been admirably stalwart when a heavy hand was applied, but a sweeter one had him crumbling quite quickly. Reyna seized the pieces of information he’d revealed to her, and had crafted quite the interesting story.

 _Though,_ she regarded Quill, _it seems that Ayden’s little puppy has sharper teeth than anticipated. Mayhap I shall get a pet werewolf of my own. One that can delight and amuse me while I place a bow in the shape of a crown between its ears._

Apollo’s rasping confessions had been irritating but insightful. Reyna was not so obliged to trouble Ragnarsson in removing the necklace a second time. Apollo need not know the specifics. Quill was clear proof that it was not a permanent item, yet Reyna found it so _difficult_ to tell Apollo that she held no plans of freeing him from its clutches. Perhaps she’d have a change of heart one day.

“What do you know of the Argent Clan?” Reyna asked.

“The Argents? Not much.” Quill frowned and pursed his lips in thought. “We stopped by their keep on the journey to Stonerose for, say, a day or two.”

“Did you speak to any at your wedding?”

“I’m not sure,” Quill shrugged. “Maybe. I mainly stayed by Ayden’s side, unless I was dancing. I exchanged partners many times. Everyone blurred together after a while.”

“I see. Your input is much appreciated.”

Apollo had finally cracked, revealing that he’d been sent by the clan head. He was the illegitimate son of some peripheral Argent or other, and his true name was Julian Chastain. He’d been employed to deliver what appeared to be a simple necklace in exchange for legitimacy, a place in Whitewood and the clan’s line of succession, even his own castle in due time. All in all, it seemed an ample gift for such a task. He’d seen no reason to refuse.

 _Do not tell him that it was from me,_ the clan head had demanded. _It will be enough that he wears the necklace. Make sure he does that, and come to Paravau as soon as you are able._

Reyna was intrigued. What cause did the Argents have to strike at Quill? As far as she knew, Coven had no quarrel with the Annex. Cooperation between regions was expected and encouraged, to be sure, and Coven and the Annex seemed to get on quite well. For the remnants of a fallen kingdom and the descendants of those who’d orchestrated its destruction, anyway.

The friendship between the rose and the wolf was one she would investigate later, however.

Reyna stood, fixing the edges of her black dress. She draped a shawl over her shoulders, protecting her body from the bits of sun that she would be exposed to.

“I’m sure you have many matters to attend to,” Reyna said, “as do I. Come, let us get out of this damnable heat.”

Quill stood as well. The curtain was drawn by his guard, and they both exited the gazebo. Reyna pulled the shawl tighter around herself as the sun bore down on her. Vampires may have tamed dragons and Orpheus itself, even shattered the Echolyte Empire that dominated the continent during the Dark Era, but they could not bend the sun. There was little she envied of other races, but their greater resistance to the elements was one of them.

***

Reyna’s footsteps echoed across the floor as she walked into the Sovereign’s office. A guard opened the door for her, bowing with a polite ‘my lady’. As expected, Ayden’s eyes were glued to the table, narrowed as he sorted through the matters that required his input. Reyna stalked to the cabinet along the wall, helping herself to the contents of a decanter that rested within.

Ayden wrinkled his nose at the intrusion but did not protest. Reyna seated herself before his desk when she was satisfied with the amount in her glass.

“You look comfortable,” Ayden drawled, still writing.

“It’s a comfortable chair.”

He snorted at her response, continuing with his tasks. Reyna watched him discretely, her mind abuzz with all of the information she’d been gleaning as of late.

“I’ve heard there may be wedding bells in the future,” Reyna remarked.

“You hear everything, don’t you? Should I be concerned?”

“Is that not why you hired me? I would have maintained my position in the DIA, had the Inner Circle not sent for me specifically.”

She sipped her drink, enjoying the icy coolness. The day was hot, and she was glad for any respite. Ayden finally tore his gaze away from his work, setting his body with many audible _cracks._ Reyna’s nails tapped her glass in a lazy rhythm as she contemplated her next words.

“I understand the importance of the one who sits at the Sovereign’s side,” Reyna began, “but you can’t mean to give the realm to a _Livingstone_.”

“I’m not doing it with pleasure,” Ayden said. “Things are still in the ‘talking’ stage, either way. Lyra can be … difficult. I suspect it will last a while.”

“She’s not like to turn this down.” _And why would she? The Potentate, unobstructed, is the second most powerful person in the realm._ “You are inviting Covenese influence into your court, doubly so for Prince Lucien’s. I can’t imagine that Lyra would not scheme to fill the capital with her people.”

“Be that as it may. Children are not their parents, and Corvus is not Lyra. Hopefully he inherits the best of that clan.”

“Oh, yes,” Reyna sniffed. “Arrogance and pride beyond measure. A throne to gnaw on will feed the Livingstone ambition for quite some time. We’d do good to expand the walls of the palace. I doubt they are wide enough to contain the girths those Covenese heads will swell to.”

Ayden shrugged. He made his way to the cabinet and followed Reyna’s example. A heavy sigh escaped him when he returned, fatigue in all his features. They both nursed their drinks; the silence was periodically broken by the latent noise of the Ironhill.

“Coven proved surprisingly honourable during the Insurgency,” Ayden said, staring into the red liquid. “I expected Lyra to call her banners after the Liberation. She was always quick to cite the Impasse Treaty whenever I so much as glanced in the region’s direction.”

“I’m sure she had her reasons for staying her hand.”

_Coven’s stance was precarious at the war’s onset. It was a firework waiting to explode, and yet it did not. Until one looks deeper and sees the faint trial of ashes. Someone may have washed them away, but enough remains to let you know that something went awry._

Reyna refilled her glass, reminded of the oddly familiar one she’d encountered in the dungeons. The yellow eyes that watched her were another matter altogether, unblinking in the weak light.

“Lyra holds what is arguably the strongest of the regions,” Reyna said, taking up her seat. “Her son on the throne will only expand her power.”

“That is precisely _why_ her son will be on the throne. She can’t work against royal interests if her name is bound to mine. Even if her eldest son is her second coming, he will not strike at his brother should family mean anything to him.” Ayden carded a hand through his hair. “I have a few years left in me. There is still time to foster Corvus; make him a proper ruler.”

‘Unlike Quill’ remained unspoken.

Ayden stood aside the window, facing the city. The glass was blackened, engineered with a vampire in mind. It cast the room in a darker light. Reyna crossed her legs and sipped her bloodwine, satisfied by the vintage. Briarean bloodwine was different from Sanguin or even Ancienti – thicker, sweeter, with an underlying spice.

“Whose banners did Coven fly during the war?” Ayden asked, eyes trained on the Fair Serpent.

Reyna humoured him. “None,” she said. “Every schoolchild knows they were neutral.” _A neutrality that served the crown, allegedly, but neutrality all the same._

“No.” Ayden turned to her. “They flew the Livingstone banner. Coven bows to whoever holds Living Stone. Their place in Eurydice has been contested since the day they knelt before the dragons.

“The existence of the Impasse was an affront to the crown – one they were able to flaunt for years.” Ayden began pacing, a finger resting on his chin. “Push Coven too hard, and you face a monster of your own creation.” He scoffed. “Their buttons are so easily pushed. A Livingstone Potentate ensures that their thorns will be shorn for the next few generations.”

His tirade ended with him back at the window. “The Impasse is all but nullified, and the war is over. I now hold all seven regions, but I’m bending to the whims of one.”

“Mayhap a new Great Clan is in order. One with less … dubious allegiance.”

“Would that it was so easy. The Livingstones are not the Wolffs.” Ayden’s expression was contemplative. “The twins grow older. It won’t be long until I must send them to Serpentspire to study under Liam. I fear I lack the wisdom that Lucien will need, and an older hand will serve him better. It frightens me to remember that I was only four years his senior when I took the throne.”

Ayden seated himself again, drinking from his cup. “Perhaps Corvus can even join them, if matters are settled by then. Children are not their parents, but I wonder what tales Lyra may have fed him about the Caedises. Our clans have shared little warmth.”

Reyna brushed her hair behind her back. She debated pouring a third glass but decided against it. Briarean wines had a way of tricking a person, drawing them in sweetly before seizing control. Much like a rose, she supposed. Reyna could understand Coven and Briar’s fondness for the flower. Sanguis’ own snake-and-dragon made their guile and strength clear.

 _What of our clans, Your Majesty?_ Reyna mused. She regarded him quietly. _We could have been wed, you know. Two chances I was given, and both I lost._

Reyna had met Ayden once, during their youth. She was a girl of eight or nine and he was a growing boy of thirteen. The Lord of Serpentspire had called for some vassal meeting, and her parents had toddled her and Hyperion along with them to Redmouth. Ayden had sat beside Sovereign Damien and Prince Liam, more Briarean than Sanguin, utterly _bored_ by the politics of his homeland. Selene Lazarus had accompanied him, all legs and silver hair and mischief. Reyna thought herself a pretty child, but Selene had the look of the southern vampires and was already fourteen besides.

Lenora had Reyna dolled up in fine dresses that made her feel more a woman than a girl. _You must be beautiful_ , Lenora would whisper, _to catch the eye of the young prince_. Reyna had asked why, when he was already betrothed to a Lazarus. _It would not be the first time a Caedis was swayed by another_ , Lenora had responded, brushing Reyna’s hair behind her back so as to reveal her collarbones.

The young prince, as it turned out, was unconcerned with Reyna. He’d shared a table with her, Hyperion, and the other noble children in the castle. He was polite and courteous and very princely, and he could not care less about the girl with the womanly dress that scarcely knew what it took to sway anyone.

Lenora’s eyes were icy once again after they returned to Starkhall. _You wretched girl_ , Lenora had hissed, nearly sobbing. _I’ve never asked anything of you. Never. I even gave you my face - the eyes you bat so slyly and the lips you lie through. Yet you could not do this one thing for me? I handed you what should have been mine, and you let it slip through your fingers._

Then Ares came into the world, and Lenora left it. Reyna had snuck into the birthing chamber when the nursemaids were busy tending to the baby, pulling back the bloodied cloth to ask the pale corpse what all of those words had meant. Her mother’s eyes were as empty in death as they were life, and her answer emptier.

Reyna wished Lenora had waited a few years more before dying so that she could sate her curiosity. In any case, she’d parsed out an understanding as she’d aged.

“On the subject of weddings,” Reyna said, drawing Ayden’s attention. “It appears my own may be looming over the horizon.”

Ayden raised a brow. “Next you’ll tell me that Hyperion is getting wed.” Reyna gave a cryptic expression. “I am aghast. Is Hyperion in love at last?”

“It will take all five gods to arrange such a feat.”

Ayden chuckled. “That man needs a spouse and a couple of children. He’s so…” Ayden waved. “My apologies, Reyna. He’s an excellent Master. I will not speak ill of your brother.”

“It’s fine. I do it all the time.”

They laughed, before Ayden reined in his mirth and asked who her intended was. Reyna allowed him a few guesses, rejecting each family he posited. She finally had mercy as he ran through the list of Sanguis’ major clans.

“Lord Orion Livingstone.”

Ayden hid his surprise behind the wine. “You question wedding a Livingstone,” he huffed, “yet here you are planning to do the same.”

Reyna smiled. Lyra had clearly been in _talks_ for both of her sons. From the sound of it, the heir to Living Stone had been given too much freedom as a boy. Now the Governor realized that he was a loose cannon, and was searching for someone to bring responsibility to him.

 _If you look past Lyra’s pretty words,_ Reyna thought, _whoever weds her son will be the_ real _ruler of Coven once she passes. And,_ she glanced at Ayden, _it would make them the sibling by law to the next Potentate of Eurydice._

If Princess Esme had been the Heir Apparent, Reyna could have had the future monarchs of Eurydice in her palm. Ayden and Esme were both desperate to fill the space Potentate Selene had left, but Prince Lucien was content to wallow in it. It made it difficult to grow close to the boy, Reyna begrudgingly admitted. He was not as forthcoming as his father or sister.

She might as well have gone out to the swamps of Port Levans and grabbed any serpent for how receptive Ayden had been to _her,_ when they’d met again as adults. The way Hyperion described the Sovereign, Reyna thought he’d be ready to fall into someone’s arms. One day around him let her know that he was more like to fall into a grave. He was cordial to a fault, frostier than the region he’d failed to conquer, and obviously still attached to his dead wife.

And there lay the second chance that Reyna had lost.

She’d been next to Hyperion in the Iron Cathedral during the late Potentate’s funeral. Grand Seer Mariposa, Calliope’s predecessor, had endlessly bleated some pious nonsense. Ayden sat in the front, stone faced, his hands clutching a bouquet of white poppies. Gray standards lined the walls and columns, for Sanguin mourning colours were gray as opposed to black.

 _Yet gray is also the colour of the Lazaruses,_ Reyna had observed, as Hyperion leaned over and told her that the Red Throne was within reach. _They are a clan built to be mourned._

The plan was simple, really. Reyna would comfort Ayden in his time of need, marry him, get an heir or two by him. The brave Sovereign of Eurydice would then return to the battlefield, die honourably, and leave her with the regency. His previous children would be a problem that Reyna would handle as was necessary.

She’d been furious to learn that Hyperion had altered the plan at the first chance, pushing for a Stepen assault before she could secure the marriage. Ayden’s death would mean _nothing_ to her if she had no claim to the throne, but Hyperion’s place on the Inner Circle gave him sway. Then her brother had crawled back to her like a worm when Ayden returned, alive and with a decisive victory for the crown. Reyna had felt a vindictive joy when Hyperion was left to reassemble the weakened Garrison while she reassembled a weakened Ayden. 

The ice had melted on a day ordinary as any other. Esme saw the good in people - a bad habit if she wanted to keep her head in this world – and her fondness for Reyna had softened her father. Reyna had been with the princess underneath the shade of a willow tree, pushing her swing upon request.

 _Mother and father used to take us on adventures all the time,_ Esme had chattered. _We might go on one soon, when father feels better. Everyone tells me that he is unwell, but not in the same way mother was. Would you like to go with us, my lady?_

 _Sweetling,_ came Reyna’s response. _It will be a long while yet until your father heals._ Esme’s optimistic smile dropped then, and Reyna had seen how fragile it was. _But, we can still go on adventures if you wish. A good story can be a great adventure._

Ayden had been nearby unbeknownst to her, and he’d quietly thanked Reyna after Esme had run off with new stories to tell Lucien. The years that followed were much warmer, until Reyna noticed the burgeoning spark of interest in those red eyes. Touches that lingered, gentle brushes as they vacated the war room at the conclusion of Inner Circle appointments, small gifts given without reason.

Then a free-thinking minion of the Wolffs trampled over her seeds just as they began to bloom.

_Two chances I was given, and two I’ve lost. I will not wait for the gods to hand me a third. I will take it myself, with the strongest region at my back. If a Tydus is to sit the throne, it shall be the one that people love, not the one that everyone will curse under their breath._

Ideal Sovereigns were modelled after Masters of Defence; their Potentates Society. Reyna had no plans of following anyone’s footsteps. She’d learned the value of Intelligence, a lesson her father had unwittingly taught her. Of all his children, Reyna was the one the former Lord of Dragonfyre Keep had favoured.

Enoch Tydus had insinuated that she had secret siblings up north, after Ares’ fire-touched hair had brought shock through Dragonfyre Keep. _You must not tell anyone, Rey,_ Enoch smiled, _if you wish for a new brother or sister._ Reyna had nodded, scarcely wanting the siblings she currently had, but she’d kept his secrets. Then she’d hunted down those brothers and sisters when she’d discovered just _what_ secret siblings entailed for a noble.

She’d removed threats to her claims then, but she would employ new methods now.

Reyna took her leave of Ayden after more idle banter, itching to relieve her frustrations. She traversed the Hill of Iron easily, well-accustomed to the underbelly of the capital, and found her new favourite messenger exactly where she’d left him.

Apollo – Julian – rasped as he often did these days, blue eyes wide and beseeching. He said something that was garbled by the necklace at his throat.

“What was that?” Reyna said sweetly. “Perhaps you should take a deep breath and try again.”

“I can’t … I … it hurts …”

“That’s unfortunate. I need you to craft a message.”

Apollo’s legs wobbled as he struggled to remain standing. “Please … I told you … what you wanted. You said you’d … take it off … if I did.”

“Oh, we’re not done. No, no. As long as you’re down in the cells, you’re mine. And,” Reyna cradled his face, “you’ll be down here for a long time, my gallant little mage.”

“Don’t worry, though.” She patted his cheek in mock-comfort. “I’ll be with you every step of the way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Believe it or not, sim-Orion and sim-Reyna are a thing. I’ll modify some parts to fit the story, but, yeah. I was surprised too. It makes for some interesting politics either way.  
> God I love Reyna so much aahh. I'm really excited for Act III >:)  
> https://urixxoo.tumblr.com/post/628606352171925504/tired if you want to see how I imagine Ayden at the moment.


	40. Sensational News

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I used to recognize myself, it’s funny how reflections change

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In a world with vampires and werewolves and magic and dragons, the pineapple is the most unusual thing  
> Theron @ Reyna and Hyperion: I don’t even know why you hoes bother at this point. Give it up. I win. You lose.  
> Reyna and Orion seem like a weird match, but after some deliberation I think they’d work. In a toxic kind of way.

Quill Lycan  
The Ironhill, 1 Cardinal

***

“Vampires can unhinge their jaws, and everyone just walks around like that’s normal,” Quill said, wincing as Jaeger laced up the back of his attire.

It was an expensive piece, wrought from rare Sanguin fabrics. The top was high-necked – Quill had taken to that style of late, convinced that everyone could see the criss-crossed scars and tattoo – and simply adorned. The upper portion was sheer aside from the areas embroidered with delicate white-gold, and the rest was darker to match. Jaeger tightened it about the waist, earning another wince from Quill.

“That _is_ normal,” Ares said, shining clearly from the speculum lightning. “Can’t you do it?”

Quill shook his head. Grier tutted as she fiddled with his hair. He sat still and let her continue as Jaeger moved on to the lower portion of his outfit.

“Werewolves are strange,” Ares hummed.

“No, no,” came Orion’s response from his own channel. “Mages don’t do that, either. I’m with Quill on this one.”

Ares paused. Isabelle’s face appeared and disappeared as she moved about her quarters in Courtmere, and she’d occasionally offer input into their four-way conversation.

“Jaeger, Grier,” Quill said, glancing at them. “Do elves unhinge their jaws?”

Grier stifled her laugh and answered in the negative. “No, Your Grace.”

“It’s settled then, Ares.” Quill stood once his attendants deemed it proper to do so, moving to study himself in a mirror. “I’ll assume that commonfolk and sirens are the same. Vampires are thus the exception.”

Quill’s reflection was quite the sight. His outfitter had chosen well, and Jaeger and Grier were skilled at their craft. He looked svelte and lovely, and his misery was scarcely visible.

Per his adamant requests, Ayden had begun easing Quill into his royal duties. They’d gone on excursions together, addressing their subjects while keeping a wide berth from them lest any unsavoury events repeat themselves. Quill was not too fond of the separation, initially, but he’d grown to appreciate it after time spent around the residents of Eurydice’s capital.

The public had been split on Quill since his coronation. The royal engagements highlighted that irritating dichotomy. For every werewolf that eagerly welcomed his reign, there were three vampires with critiques at the ready. Aspects about Quill – things that he’d never even _considered_ \- were suddenly nit-picked and strewn about for all to see. The way he talked, the way he walked, the fact that he stood either too close or too far from Ayden during addresses.

In the rare days where Quill attended an event under his own authority, the tabloids would mention how detached and unconcerned and unapproachable he was. _‘We’d expect no less from an Insurgent. Hides in the Redfyre Palace. Nothing like Potentates Lilith and Selene, who would walk amongst their people.’_

Quill would, too, if the people had not tried to assassinate him. He imagined that Potentate Lilith would not have been inclined to walk amongst anyone if she’d survived the blade.

Countess Roselle and Lady Lilith fed him tidbits of the whisperings, assuring him that things would pass like water if he did not stoke the fires. _‘Such is the way of Ancient,’_ they’d smile. ‘ _Words are a lyre a dozen. They come and go, and a Potentate should not be concerned with matters of little worth.’_

 _Wait until they find out that I tortured a man beneath the Hill of Iron,_ Quill thought darkly. _They’d have enough lyres to make a thousand crowns._

He crossed his arms at that admission, meeting the eyes of his reflection. His diadem rested on a cushion near the mirror, and Quill was drawn to the four snakes whose fangs pierced the moonstone centrepiece. Aside it sat various accessories, the most prominent being a serpentine jewel that began as a bracelet and ended as a ring.

 _Lycan colours are silver and blue,_ Quill thought, having grown tired of seeing black and gold wherever he went. _We are meant to be the wolves in the tower. But,_ he slid the bracelet onto his hand, tracing the small serpent that wound its way around his finger, _I am bound to a Caedis. There is now a snake in the tower._

The Quill that read with his older siblings and teased his younger ones would not have placed a dangerous emerald on another person, knowing the effect that it would have. Spurred on _by_ the promise of pain. That Quill had the temper of Viscardi and Luna with the temperance of Ezra and Lorelei, a proper Lycan of Beowulf Tower. Would _that_ Quill like the man that stared back from the mirror, this new Quill who wore snakes at every turn?

Quill tuned into his friends’ conversation in time to hear Isabelle say, “get thee to the clericy!”

Orion scoffed at the command. “And lose my _wonderful_ claim to Living Stone? Preposterous.”

They spoke as Quill donned the jewellery, though he hesitated when he came across the necklace that Reyna had gifted him. Quill regarded the metalwork, trepidation budding within him. He _knew_ that this necklace was safe; that it would not hurt him. He’d worn it before, had definitive proof that it was an ordinary item, but his hands still trembled as he touched it.

 _Wear it_ , he told himself. _It completes the ensemble. You’ve done it many times._ _It does not even close._ _Look, there is a large gap at the front._

His hands recoiled regardless. _What if I cannot take if off?_ A smaller voice asked. _What if I’m left clawing and gasping again? What if Apollo escaped, and enchanted this one as revenge, and I am made helpless once more?_

Quill set the snake down gently and backed away, unable to fasten it around his neck.

“I may as well get used to fangs,” Orion was saying. A person moved somewhere in his vicinity, prompting a dismissive grunt when Ares inquired about their identity. “It seems I’ll be interacting with them in the future.”

Orion turned to Quill as he returned to his speculum’s field of vision, a question in his eyes. “Did you ever find out what fangs felt like when they’re used _down there_?”

“They can hurt if you’re not careful.” _No need to tell him the details._

“Good to know.” Orion sighed and tussled his hair. “Ordinarily I’d be on my worst behaviour, but it feels odd when my darling betrothed is one so close to home.”

Quill, Isabelle, and Ares all reacted in the same way. The possibility of Orion settling down, finding a spouse and fulfilling his noble duties, baffled all of them. Quill ordered he elaborate, beyond intrigued at this new development.

“I’ve good news and bad news,” Orion said. “As you can see, the ‘bad’ is that my mother has finally gotten her way and arranged for me to be wed. The ‘good’ is,” he winked at Isabelle, though it lacked the usual flirtatious humour, “well. Hello, sister. If you were secretly in love with me, best make it known before some high cleric signs my death warrant.”

“I assure you,” Isabelle said drily, “that I bear no such secrets.”

“Why did you call her sister?” Ares asked, pressing his face closer.

Orion smiled bitterly. “Because we’re all to be siblings by law.”

Isabelle’s eyes widened as she connected the pieces. “ _No,_ ” she hissed. “You’re joking.”

“I swear by Echolyse’s tits that I am truthful.”

“Which one?”

“Ideally both tits, but I suppose the le-”

“ _Hyperion or Reyna?_ ”

Orion helped himself to the third glass of wine since summoning them. “Reyna. I’d best contact the singers. They’ll need to start practicing ‘The Milkmaid’s Daughter’. _I want to have a taste, have a taste, of your milk!_ ”

Quill disguised his laugh as a cough. _“Put it in my mouth and let me suck it out,”_ he continued, remembering the horrendous song from his own wedding.

Isabelle gagged at the lyrics while Ares looked crestfallen.

“She can’t!” Ares cried, his dark eyes glistening.

“Oh, yes she can,” Orion countered. “Lyra Livingstone does what she pleases. If it displeases anyone else, all the better. There is extra incentive if that person is me.”

“No, that’s … I …”

Orion downed his glass as Ares stammered. “Isabelle, Ares, live your lives. Us married folk,” he pointed to Quill, “will be dead within the fortnight.”

_If only you knew._

Quill blindly selected a fragrance from the collection he kept in his chambers, spritzing enough to make it clear that he was present without it becoming overwhelming. He donned the diadem, letting Grier readjust his hair around it. When all was concluded, Quill said his goodbyes and made his way out of his wing.

Ayden and the twins joined him soon enough as vehicles were prepared for them. They were each dressed finely - the models of Eurydicean exceptionalism. Ayden’s informal crown was similar to Quill’s, though it featured two serpents whose heads met without a central gemstone. Esme’s tiara and Lucien’s circlet were snakes, unsurprisingly, that wrapped delicately along their heads.

“You smell nice,” Ayden said as Quill fell in place beside him.

“Thank you.” 

_Dear Remus. I haven’t felt such awkwardness while speaking to Ayden in months._

Quill had requested that they return to their old arrangement the day after his lapse in judgement under the Hill. Ayden had agreed, packing up the items that had been creeping into his wing. Quill could see a question in Ayden’s eyes every time since then, but how was he meant to explain the unjustified fear that Ayden would attack him as he slept?

_Come now, Quill. Don’t let one foolish nightmare ruin months of effort._

He took Ayden’s arm as the four of them exited the main palace, leaning close. “Would you like to spend the night with me?” Quill asked, keeping his voice low.

Ayden’s eyes drifted to him. “Only a night?”

Quill hesitated. Ayden turned away with a whispered ‘very well,’ and Quill subtly unsheathed his claws at the lacklustre reaction. His claws were growing since being shorn, and it felt _right_ to be able to manipulate them as he was wont to do.

Sunlight streamed down as they descended the palace’s external staircase. The doors of the vehicles were held open for them. Quill entered his and Ayden’s, settling down for yet another superficial engagement. The automobile lurched forward once Ayden was seated, driving past the barriers of the palace.

 _Be happy,_ Quill chided himself, leaning against the glass and tracking the blue waters of the Fair Serpent. _You are the one who made such noise about your lack of involvement. Isn’t this what you wanted?_

Quill closed his eyes. _No, it’s not._

\---

Today saw Quill attending a play written and directed by Achilles Pagonis. The man was a popular playwright, one whose works could fill the stands in a matter of days. Many coveted tickets to his shows, and only the most cultured of theatre enthusiasts could make claims as to witnessing his genius first-hand.

Quill must have been uncultured, for he’d had no clues as to the man’s existence until receiving the invitation made for him.

 _Liberation: A Theatrical Rendition of Eurydicean_ _Sovereignty_ would be making its debut on the stage. Ayden was a central character in the dramatized retelling of the Liberation of Homestead, and thus the royal family had been given the best seats in the house.

Quill glanced around the West Gate Theatre as its occupants made their way through the ornate halls. People strolled leisurely, cooling themselves off with patterned fans. The attire was formal, and the elite denizens of the Ironhill had come dressed to impress. They stopped to curtsy or bow at the royals, many of them chattering about Pagonis’ newest piece.

A complement of guards accompanied them. They stalked about the halls, at the ready in case of complications. Cerberus tailed Quill as was custom, and Quill chuckled to himself at how poorly the gruff man blended in with the artistically-inclined nobles and socialites.

They were ushered towards the stage by prim servers. Red and gold curtains were drawn, and Quill sat down as properly as he could. Lucien and Esme were directed to the box diagonally below theirs. Esme gazed ahead with princess-like indifference, but Lucien seemed genuinely interested by the proceedings of the actors.

“So,” Quill said, as the theatre rumbled with all the feet seeking chairs to rest at, “this play is about you?”

Ayden nodded, making himself more comfortable. “The arts have never been my passion, but it seemed rude to reject a personal invitation. And,” he crossed his arms, “I admit that I want to see who was cast to represent me.”

Quill played with the snake bracelet, following its progression into a ring. He read through the list of actors, not recognizing any of their names. Quill had seen plays in the Annex, to be sure, but they involved the people that lived beneath the Tower. He’d been inclined to don handmade costumes and parade about the castle as any child was, no doubt to the amusement of his mother and the household servants. There was even a memory of Theron watching one of his ‘performances’, amber eyes softer than he was used to seeing on his father.

“Your Majesty,” a vampiric man said lowly, pulling the curtains closed behind him. “It is an honour to have you attend my show. West Gate welcomes you.” He sent a quick nod Quill’s way. “Your Grace.”

“Achilles Pagonis, I take it,” Ayden said, shaking his hand. “The honour is mine. I’ve yet to see the Liberation shown in a manner other than historical.”

Quill remained silent as they chatted, adding his two lyres when appropriate. There was little he knew of the Liberation beyond what he’d experienced in the Annex. Theron had described it as chaotic, not so much as the Siege of Tyrant’s March but near enough it made no matter, when pestered after his return from Stepes. It had certainly removed any chance of the Insurgents regaining the upper hand that they’d been losing after Ayden’s ascension brought Briar into the fold.

The lights dimmed and the curtains dropped, signalling the start of the story. Pagonis bowed out, leaving the monarchs to watch the show together. Below them, Esme made a comment that earned her an irate glare from Lucien. Quill flipped through the programme as he awaited the beginning sequence.

A woman emerged, and a centring light followed her. She stood tall and dark-skinned, with silvery hair that billowed out as she moved. Quill took her in neutrally, only gaining interest as Ayden stiffened beside him.

“Years ago,” an unseen narrator said, in the clipped Ironhill accent, “our beloved Potentate Selene ventured into enemy territory. Armed with guile and grace, she breached the Annex underneath Insurgent noses.”

The woman made her way across the stage, leaping over mountainous props. White powder fell from the ceiling in lazy waves, building a thin layer on the ground.

“Peace!” she called. “Lower your banners, and you shall be spared.” The woman clasped her hands over her chest, addressing the audience. “The crown is merciful and forgiving.”

Quill leaned forward, intrigued.

“Peace was never within the realm of possibility,” the narrator said. A dove flew over actress-Selene’s head. “The cruel Insurgents heard her words and thought of bloodshed, not of her wisdom.”

Quill cocked his head. _Cruel? We were not the ones that drank the blood of our hostages, or sawed off the ears of Transformed werewolves._

Apollo’s sobs rang in Quill’s head. _Why am I still feeling so_ guilty? _Apollo struck first when he placed the necklace upon me. I … I had every right to retaliate._

His musings were interrupted when several people emerged onstage with the actress. They clutched blades in their hands and surrounded her. She began beseeching them, pleading that they would see reason, but they crept upon her with malicious intent.

Quill’s nails dug into the railing as he processed their costumes. Prosthetic canid ears lined their heads, and bushy tails had been sewn into trousers and skirts. The glint of fangs and lack of golden eyes made it clear that they were all vampires.

 _What the hell?_ _Are they supposed to be … werewolves?_

“And so, the Insurgents bore down on her,” the narrator was saying, “and took the life of our sweet Selene.”

The ear-clad people proceeded to do just that, striking down the woman with reckless abandon as she screamed. A resounding gasp went up from the audience. If possible, Ayden became even more rigid. Lucien and Esme did not fare any better, looking on with bewildered expressions as the stabbing persisted.

‘Selene’ floated upwards – likely by some magic – and rested on a giant prop in the shape of the moon. It soared across the sky, the bloodstained white dress that she wore billowing beneath her. The audience sighed; one person even sobbed.

“Are those vampires?” Quill whispered to Ayden, pointing to one of the actors. “Why are they dressed like that?”

“What?” Ayden blinked. His fists were clenched tightly in his lap, and his face was creased in barely-contained rage.

“Never mind.”

Quill’s focus returned to the stage. The ‘werewolves’ proceeded to celebrate their vicious victory over the crown, dancing and hooting as the narrator bemoaned the death of Potentate Selene Caedis. Quill shifted warily in his seat when a considerable number of stares were sent his way from the people stationed in their own private boxes.

 _I didn’t ask for her place!_ Quill wanted to yell. He bit his tongue and kept his eyes forward.

The curtains closed after the Silver Demon was removed from the fray, and the Young Viper appeared once they reopened. Ayden’s actor brandished a black sword and declared justice for Selene, single-handedly cutting down the Insurgents in his path.

Quill’s confusion turned to irritation and then _seething_ at the depictions of his people. Actor-Ayden tore through their ranks, leading many of them to crawl away on their bellies with their false tails flapping behind them. Whenever the perspective shifted to the Insurgent side, the werewolf caricatures would plot and scheme various ways to fell the mighty Sovereign.

Joy coursed through the audience as each _werewolf_ met a gruesome end at actor-Ayden’s sword. Real-Ayden flinched as his counterpart speared them in increasingly absurd ways. The narrator gleefully described the famous battles of the Liberation, detailing the crown’s victories from Bareland to Deerdenn. Anticipation rose as the Garrison, shown by vampires and elves walking proudly in uniform, marched across the stage and levelled Insurgent strongholds.

Quill reached his limit when the werewolves began _howling._ He stood abruptly and left the box, stomping past Cerberus. The man kept pace at a respectful distance. Quill stopped near a set of arches and released the pent-up anger.

“Your Grace,” Cerberus said after Quill had practically burned a hole into the tile for how much he’d been pacing, “it will be improper if you do not return.”

“I don’t give a shit about propriety!” Quill snapped. “Not after that filth.” He barely managed to control the degree to which his canines Shifted. “Howling isn’t just barking at the sky however you feel. It’s a culturally significant skill that can take _years_ to master!”

He resumed his pacing, tugging at the sleeves of his attire. “Were there really so few werewolves in the Ironhill that _none_ could be cast? Words cannot describe how much I loathe this city.”

Footsteps sounded, and people began traversing the hallways at the conclusion of the play’s first act. A number addressed him, though the reception was colder without Ayden at his side. Quill suspected that his crown was keeping them docile. He wondered what tales they’d tell once they returned to their manors.

Cerberus persuaded Quill to watch the second act, giving him an impassive head tilt. Quill’s feet dragged all the way to the box. Ayden appeared soon after and stiffly took his own seat.

Music played at the onset of the Liberation’s largest battle – the Victory at the Mellow Sea. Only, it was referred to as such by crown loyalists. The Insurgents had had a very different name for it.

 _The Red Massacre_ , Quill thought, watching as the commonfolk actors that had thus far been background rose up in revolt. Werewolves dropped one by one, until only actor-Ayden and his allies remained standing. Seven banners of the crown were lowered onstage, and the orchestra began a hymnal rendition of the Eurydicean anthem.

“And so,” the narrator said, “Sovereign Ayden Caedis claims Homestead in the name of Eurydice. But,” the actor looked to the audience, before raising his head towards Quill and Ayden’s box, “the war is far from over.”

“With this sword,” the actor said, presenting the body before the crowd, “I swear to end the war that my father valiantly fought and died for. As long as I draw breath, all who oppose the crown shall live in fear of the Viper’s wrath.”

Thrilled claps filled the theatre as the audience applauded. Ayden joined them after a few seconds, his movements jerky. Quill managed a clap or two before giving up. He stood when everyone else left their seats, hoping his lack of excitement would not be scrutinized.

Afterwards, there was a reception of sorts for the most prominent people within the theatre. The actors changed from their costumes and stage makeup into less garish pieces, laughing and receiving praises from the spectators. Ayden was roped into conversations and photographs with his actor. He spoke to Selene’s as well, the tightness in his jaw visible if you were familiar with him.

Trays of Ancienti gold were distributed. Quill acquired a glass of wine, needing something to _do_ while he counted down the minutes until it would be socially acceptable to leave. Lucien seemed to hold a similar idea, pure surliness radiating off of his countenance. Esme was much friendlier, making easy conversation with all who engaged the royal heirs.

Just when Quill had convinced himself that his disappearance would not be noticed, a smug Ironhill voice called out his title. Quill fixed a smile on his face and turned to Achilles Pagonis. He cradled the wine glass and reminded himself not to feed the tabloids by giving Pagonis his unfiltered opinions on what was already being heralded as a masterpiece despite its recent unveiling.

“Potentate Quill,” Pagonis said, coming to a stop. Everything about him exuded arrogance. His form-fitting suit, his finely polished shoes, his slick black hair. “I’ve been searching for you. It’s as if you disappeared after the standing ovation.”

 _I am currently pursuing that goal._ “My apologies. How may I be of assistance?”

“I wish to get an Insurgent’s perspective on the Liberation. Tell me, Your Grace,” Pagonis moved closer, “did I effectively capture the fear and helplessness that your people felt?” He waved a hand dramatically. “I’ve spent years writing _Liberation_. It may yet be my magnum opus, but it would crush me to know that even a single detail was not true to life.”

“You captured much and more,” Quill hedged. “I was curious as to your creative decisions.”

Pagonis’ brown eyes gleamed at the chance to explain his genius. “How so?”

“It struck me as odd that a play that relied so heavily on werewolves would feature none. Vampires dressed as werewolves was insufficient.” 

Pagonis hid his disappointment with a wave. “Oh, no, no, no. Pardon me, Your Grace, but your people have not yet refined their tastes as others have. It has been standard practice to do things this way since the reign of Sovereign Jocelyn.”

The revelation was punctuated by a smile. Quill sipped his wine to avoid a tirade. He listened as Pagonis launched into some story or other, nodding where necessary. He felt much like a tightrope walker at a circus as the people swarmed around them. Everyone took glances at him, waiting for a misstep.

“I already have a sequel in the making,” Pagonis said conspiratorially. “I am thinking of setting it at the end of the war. Perhaps when your clan abandoned its liege.” He tutted and gazed at Quill, mumbling. “Who shall play you, who shall play you?”

Pagonis listed several actors, many of which were unfamiliar to Quill. The names he _did_ recognize were vampiric, prompting Quill to believe that that was a common thread. His hold on the glass tightened.

“Correct me if I’m mistaken,” Quill smiled, “but they are vampires. If you hadn’t noticed, _I_ am not a vampire.”

“A small matter. As I said, it is stand-”

“Perhaps Thibault Lykaois?” Quill forced onwards, naming a werewolf celebrity that he’d connected with at his wedding. “He’s Covenese, but I’m sure he’d be happy to travel east for the opportunity to work with someone as famed as yourself.”

Pagonis, as it turns out, was not listening. He lifted a glass from a passing waiter, raising his hands and drawing the attention of the gathered crown. An anticipatory hush fell as they waited to hear what he had to offer.

“Much like our beloved Sovereign,” Pagonis drawled, “I never cease in my pursuit of victory. As such, it is my pleasure to inform these fine ladies and gentlemen that I am already in talks for the next production in my royal series.

“Some roles may be reprised,” he motioned at Ayden’s actor, earning a good-natured laugh, “but new figures will be introduced. One may even be standing amongst us! Of course,” his eyes met Quill’s, “everything shall be done according to standard practice. The West Gate Theatre is, after all, the highest point of art.”

Titters abounded at the declaration. Quill placidly went along with the multitude of toasts that were made. _Don’t stoke the flames._

“Finally,” Pagonis said, “a toast to me as I craft another great Eurydicean rendition. No doubt my writings will find themselves aside Draco von Drake’s classics!”

_I pray Remus burns this place to the ground._

After Quill’s arrival in the capital, the palace attendants had wasted no time in preparing him for his soon-to-be station as the Red Throne’s left hand. Important clans to know, so as not to offend them and shame the crown. Phrases and etiquette and the proper mannerism to employ, so as not to offend high society and shame the crown.

 _My mother taught me propriety, thank you very much,_ Quill thought. A scheme came to mind as glasses of golden wine were lifted in celebration. _I’ve half a mind to shame the crown._

Quill stared Pagonis dead in the eye and slowly overturned the glass he was holding.

Shocked silence, broken by the sound of wine hitting tile, rang out as the most proximal people witnessed his actions. Quill kept his eyes trained on Pagonis’ face as he poured, unwilling to lose his nerve after committing to the act.

“It appears I’ve spilled my wine,” Quill said once his glass was empty. “A shame. I was _so_ eager to raise a toast.” 

He deposited the glass on a waiter’s tray, stepping over the alcoholic puddle and weaving through the crowd. It was early evening outside, and the faint glimmer of the moon was a comforting presence. Quill cut a path to the royal vehicles, sliding into the that had borne him.

“I want to go home,” Quill told the driver.

They cited that they could not leave without Ayden. Quill idled in the vehicle as he waited, unwilling to face the theatre after his display. Ayden and the twins exited eventually, and his husband settled into the adjacent seat with a heavy sigh.

Neither of them spoke as the driver informed Quill that they would now be heading home. A part of him wailed _‘no! That place is not my home!’_ as they made their way towards the Redfyre Palace.

***

_SYMBOL OF PEACE NOT SO PEACEFUL?_

_INSURGENT SYMPATHIES STILL LIE IN POTENTATE?_

Quill’s hands shook as he flipped through the sensational news. Each newspaper was spattered with headings more eye-catching than the last, but _The Daily Hill_ was the most extravagant of them all. They’d even captured his meltdown with Cerberus as he’d ranted about the capital.

Never mind how he’d snubbed Pagonis.

 _Potentate Selene would have never been so insolent,_ read the columns. _His Grace – we will be respectful and set a proper example, even if he cannot extend the same curtesy – has no concern for his husband or his position._

 _Such a man is allowed around the princess and the prince,_ wrote another. _Sovereign Ayden had better take a good long look at the kind of influence an Insurgent brings to court._

“Your Grace,” Roselle said, holding a cup of tea, “it would be best if you took a break from … reading.”

Alois nodded. “Give it a week or so. They will forget. Or,” he took a red macaroon from the tiered dessert tray, “you can order that they be silenced. Blacklist any prints that mention you in such a manner.”

“I don’t think censorship will help my case,” Quill said, letting the newspaper float towards the table.

Crescent rested her paws on the table and sniffed at the delicacies, earning a reproachful growl from Quill. Roselle, Alois, and Lilith jumped in surprise. Crescent, for her part, slunk off with a whine. She huddled a few feet away, gazing at Quill with sad brown eyes.

“You eat the finest meats the palace can offer,” Quill said, ignoring his courtiers as he talked to his dog. “You’ll survive without a bit of cake.”

Crescent turned away.

“She can understand you?” Lilith gasped. “Is it because you’re a werewolf?”

 _Does no one have a good grasp of werewolves?_ “She understands me about as well as any dog does for its owner. Dogs and werewolves have yet to share a common language.”

Quill reached for the newspaper, torturing himself once more. Roselle bemoaned him in that, but Quill wanted to see _all_ that pertained to him.

 _Ayden is perfect, and his children are perfect, and his wife was perfect._ Quill fought the bitterness on his tongue. _I am the new moon that darkens the earth after the full moon has come and gone._

He tore his eyes away at the screech of chairs against the floor. The others had risen to bow or curtsy as Ayden strolled into the space, dressed casually in dark blue. His increasingly longer hair was fastened behind him, and a hooded cloak cascaded around his shoulders. He held a long box underneath one arm, setting Quill’s courtiers at ease with the other.

“My lord and ladies,” Ayden greeted, nodding at them in turn. “Might I steal my husband?”

Roselle curtsied deeply, ushering Lilith and Alois away like ducklings. Ayden cleared a place on the table and placed the box before Quill once they were gone. Quill cocked his head and awaited an explanation.

“It’s a gift,” Ayden said.

“What for?”

“For you. Open it.”

Quill did as he commanded, peeling apart the wrapping. He unfastened the ribbon and pulled the lid off, his eyes widening at what he saw.

Inside was a sleek recurve bow. The body and limbs were adorned with gilded silversteel, intricate patterns woven throughout. Quill caressed it as he removed the bow from its bed of velvet. The arrows were metal to match, with a tower emblazoned on each of their heads.

Quill was in love.

“While I was having Lucien and Esme’s swords made,” Ayden said, swiping a dessert from the tray, “I commissioned a bow fit for a Sovereign. Unfortunately,” he took a bite, “I do not know how to use them. I understand a certain Potentate does.”

Quill held the grip and plucked the string, satisfied by the reverberation. He tested the weight of the bow and its arrows, familiarizing himself with it. It was not quite like the wooden type he’d kept in Lunares, but it was more than sufficient.

“I can’t wait to shoot arrows at passing carriages,” Quill joked. Then, more quietly, “Maybe I’ll hit someone from _The Daily Hill._ ”

“Terrorizing passersby will have to be postponed,” Ayden offered a tentative smile. “I wanted to go north with you. That is,” he rubbed his neck, “if you are willing.”

Quill’s head would have rolled off of his shoulders if he’d nodded any more vigorously. He bolted towards his chambers, Crescent lopping at his heels, and began rummaging through his closets for non-restrictive clothing. He settled on his Annexian garments – they had been deemed unfit for courtly life after he’d been crowned – and breathed a sigh of relief at the comforting wool. He slid robust boots on his feet and slung the bow over his shoulders, running back to Ayden.

“How long have you been planning this?” Quill asked, bouncing on his toes as Ayden led the way out of the palace.

“I wanted to surprise you, but I was never sure when to do so,” Ayden responded. “The Ironhill has been a bit … claustrophobic these days. I suspect we’re both in need of some time away.”

“I could kiss you right now for saying that.”

“Oh? Perhaps I should say it more often.”

Quill laughed, feeling light and giddy.

Crescent periodically stopped as they encountered attendants, but she ran ahead outside. Quill paused for half a heartbeat as he identified Hyperion. The Master waited beside an automobile, watching as a servant loaded the trunk with suitcases. He bowed and shared a civil, if a bit tense, smile with Quill. 

“Lord Tydus,” Quill said as Ayden went in search of his personal vehicle. “I notice you’ve packed for a trip.”

Hyperion stroked Crescent’s ears. “I’m heading south. Courtmere.”

“I hear Courtmere is a beautiful city.” Quill cringed. _How am I supposed to speak to him after what happened with Apollo? I can’t believe I miss our polite games of ‘fuck-you’._

They were spared from dancing around Quill’s secret by the crunch of stone from Ayden’s vehicle. Ayden spoke with Hyperion for a minute or so, and Quill used that opportunity to retreat to the passenger’s side. Crescent poked her head out from the backseat, and Quill hoped that Ayden would not demand that he leave her behind.

Once Ayden and Hyperion concluded their interaction, both sets of vehicles drove out of the palace grounds. They split soon enough, Hyperion’s turning towards the South Gate of the Iron Wall and Ayden making his way northside. Crescent held her head out of the window, tongue lolling in the wind.

Concrete and high-rises gave way to dirt and trees soon enough. The worn path that Ayden took led them through dense pine and cedar forests. Quill relaxed as the atmosphere darkened under the foliage. He played with the strings of his bow, itching to test it out.

Ayden stopped along a small road that veered off the path. He parked the vehicle and dismounted. Quill scrambled from his seat, inhaling as the wind ruffled his hair. The air was cooler here, without the smoke and chaos of the city. He heard the distant call of a train.

They did not venture far from the vehicle, but Quill did not mind. He readied the arrows in their quiver, glad for a change of scenery.

“What is this place?” Quill asked, fascinated by the flora.

“La’wedrawulfe Forest _,_ ” Ayden answered, the inflection unusual. “My great-grandmother acquired these lands as a private retreat. We’ve crossed the regional boundary and are _technically_ in Sanguis. So, welcome to my homeland.”

Quill repeated the name over and over until he found what had struck him. “ _La’wedrawulfe?_ That isn’t Eurydicean. Why does it have a Wolfetongue name?”

Ayden shrugged. “It’s not uncommon to encounter Wolfetongue here and there.” He watched a cardinal fly overhead. “Most of northern Sanguis was Lunae Lumen before the Rose Era.”

Quill hummed. He nocked an arrow, getting his arms acquainted with the bow. He loosed it at a tree once he was ready, exhaling breathlessly at the motion.

A slight burn coursed through his muscles as they struggled to regain their old dexterity. Quill prepared another arrow and released it at the same tree. He did this again and again, losing himself in a pattern of nock, aim, loose. Quill’s breathing quickened with each sustained hit, and his fingers found a steady rhythm.

Quill stopped once he reached for an arrow and realized that they’d all been embedded in the trees. His arms ached and his hair was a mess, and he felt more _alive_ than he had since setting foot in the Ironhill. The trees were littered with the tower-tipped arrows as a monument to him.

Ayden whistled while Quill caught his breath. “I suppose the trees _were_ looking at you strangely,” Ayden said. “Remind me not to cross you while you have a weapon in your hands.”

He sat on flat stone, nervously petting Crescent as she lay at his feet.

Quill regarded him quietly. “Are you up for a bit of sport?” he asked. “I’ll give you time to conceal yourself, and then I’ll track you down.”

“I did not plan on being hunted.”

“Are you afraid of the scary werewolf?”

Ayden stood, taking away Quill’s height advantage. “Should I be?” he teased, bending to Quill’s level.

Quill’s pulse quickened. “Go on. Humor me, if only for a bit.”

Ayden did as Quill bid, disappearing into the trees. Quill collected the arrows as he gave Ayden the allocated time, admiring the towers carved into the arrowheads. A rustle in the undergrowth caught his attention, and Quill pretended that it was Luna. He fired at it, deliberately missing, and sighed in sad fondness when a squirrel squealed and ran away.

Quill Shifted and traversed the forest, ears pricked for signs of Ayden. He switched to olfaction, tasting the air for hints of cinnamon. He located it soon enough, gazing up the length of a thick, many-branched tree.

“Are you up there, Your Majesty?” Quill smirked. “It smells like _Ayden_.”

Ayden dropped from the tree, hanging upside-down. “I used to forget that werewolves’ sense of smell is unmatched. It cost me many an ambush.”

Quill considered the war, wondering how he’d have fared. He’d never been a particularly large person, preferring stealth over strength, but that did not mean that he would have been useless in combat. Had the war lasted any longer and reached another point of intense combat, Quill would doubtless have joined Theron and Ezra as a ranged fighter. _And,_ he watched Ayden descend, _the Viper would have cut us down all the same._

They kept on for a while, until Ayden bid them return to the palace. Quill squashed his disappointment as they walked back to the path. _La’wedrawulfe_ careened around them with the music of animals and plants and _life,_ and Quill was sad to see it go.

“Did you want to find an animal?” Ayden inquired near the vehicle. “Mayhap a deer? You seem the hunting type.”

Quill shook his head. “I won’t shoot something if I don’t plan on eating it. I’ve no tools with me, in any case, and I doubt you’d want an untreated carcass in your automobile.”

Ayden chuckled. Quill felt at ease. Crescent bounded into her seat, and Ayden began the journey to the city. A hesitant hand rested on Quill’s thigh, and he was not inclined to move it.

“I’ve scheduled a series of appointments between you and Doctor Tucker,” Ayden suddenly said.

Quill cocked his head. “Why?”

“I’ll be travelling to Stepes, and you will be coming with me.” He faced Quill for a second. “This is not a pleasure visit, mind you. I’m not sure how much fun you’ll have, but-”

“Thank Remus.” Quill took Ayden’s free hand, gingerly intertwining their fingers. “What does that have to do with Tucker, however?”

“Selene was not fortified against illness when she … left. The Gray Waste claimed her. I thought it wise to ensure you were of sound health before going west.”

“I’m _from_ the west, Ayden. I’ve likely already caught and recovered from anything we’d encounter. Although,” he traced circles on Ayden’s palm, “was Potentate Selene not killed? That is what happened in Pagonis’ play.”

“The play was wrong.” Ayden squeezed Quill’s hand. It was almost painful.

 _The Annex hasn’t had any major outbreaks in years._ Quill leaned on the glass, excitement at the promise of freedom from the Ironhill making him dizzy. _It is unfortunate that Potentate Selene contracted the disease with such low odds._

He huffed. _There truly is no limit to Pagonis’ creative liberties. I’ll be sure to spare an arrow for him once I’m done with The Daily Hill_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spotlight: Eurydicean Gray Waste Crises
> 
> First: The first widely recognized pandemic in Eurydicean history occurred during the Rose Era. It was nicknamed the “werewolf plague”, as werewolves were said to be the source of the illness. Lunae Lumen was destroyed as a result. Although the pandemic took many lives, the March of the Tyrant claimed more. Nowadays, scholars and healers alike know that werewolves are not more susceptible to the Gray Waste than other races. Records indicate that Gideon Rosemont spread such ideas in order to unite his stolen kingdom, remove an unbowed foe, and test the feasibility of the uncolonized lands to the west using the displaced werewolves.
> 
> Second: The second outbreak of the Gray Waste was much deadlier and longer-lasting than the first. It began towards the end of the Gold Era, and is a major contributor for the Gray Crash that weakened Eurydice's global and domestic economies. Old beliefs and suspicions reared their heads as cases increased across Orpheus. Lupus Crossing was sealed for a time by Sovereign Jocelyn Caedis, and the movement of werewolves across the kingdom was heavily restricted. These decisions greatly insulted the werewolves and reignited dormant resentment. Eurydice was better equipped to handle the disease after the advancements made during the Gold Era, however. Crown Princess Celeste Caedis, who would have been Celeste Caedis III had she ascended, spearheaded much of the research used to develop graybane. The outbreak was contained towards the second half of the Gray Era, though a localized resurgence occurred in Sanguis. Princess Celeste acquired the disease from a werewolf-dominated treatment camp that she visited. She travelled to Sangtown with her sons Damien and Liam to recuperate. Unfortunately, she did not recover. The young Prince Damien became Sovereign Jocelyn’s heir after the death of his mother.


	41. House of Cards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'd rather watch my kingdom fall. I want it all, or not at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always think Quill is a boring MC until I write a Quill chapter and realize he’s _chaotic_. He goes ‘fuck the church’ on live television while standing next to the pope. His first instinct after getting a new bow is to be a menace to society. Theron and Quill’s thought patterns are so similar lmao.  
> CONTENT WARNING: Jericho Wolfheart is a creep

Theron Lycan  
Westedge, 1 Cardinal

***

Vows were said, oaths sworn, documents signed.

By the end of it all, the Wolfhearts and Mooreshields had officially declared the cessation of their rebellion. The heads of each clan – along with select retainers – had ridden to Scarwood Hold to officially swear fealty to the Lycans as their liege family.

Theron was glad for it. He commended them on their efforts, maintaining their allegiance with the Wolffs all throughout his ascension, but they’d finally seen it was folly to continue on as they were. It was in good time, too. Per the terms of Eurydice’s reunification, the Sovereign had pardoned a great many Insurgent leaders. Theron had negotiated for senior Wolfhearts and Mooreshields to be on the list of those spared, hoping to sway them to his cause, but their obstinance had had him reconsidering.

He’d been hunched over a missive meant to overturn his decision, swallowing the bitter pill of using the crown’s sigil as an excuse to remove the troublesome members, when Rhys had delivered the news of their surrender. Theron had heaved a breath at that. He’d been loath to appear as a man who crawled to his own son-in-law whenever trouble brewed.

Arrangements had subsequently been made for the remaining Wolff loyalists to pledge their loyalty to Theron, and events had proceeded with little complications.

 _Once I receive word from Ezra,_ Theron thought, taking a seat in a dining room of the Hold, _I will have all of the important clans of the Annex under my command. Proceedings should be concluded in Oceanfall soon, if my estimations are correct._

Theron had built a house of cards when he usurped the Wolffs, to be sure, and he was not so eager to see it fall. His allies had trusted him enough to risk Silas’ wrath should their scheme fail, and Theron would rot before letting a few uppity clans break it. The might of Lyra’s fleet would see the Ark Islands appropriately cowed, and Theron had taken several steps to ensure that Scarwood Hold was not open to attack.

Footsteps abounded as Theron and his guests settled for supper. Celestina sat at the other end of the table, her steps prim and proper. The rustle of her skirts as she moved was a sound Theron had come to know quite well, though he seldom heard it in the emptiness of his wife-imposed chambers. He’d prepared himself for a few nights spent in solitude, drowsily reaching across the bed for someone who was not there, but she had been adamant in her stubbornness.

Spring gave way to summer, but Celestina Lycan had not given way to him.

 _Northern werewolves are fierce,_ Theron grumbled to himself as the dishes were laid out before them. _Tina may be a gray-wolf as I am, but her blood runs hot as any dire-wolf. Perhaps it is a defence mechanism for the colder climate up here._

He lifted a cup of mulled wine after a servant had finished pouring the beverage. _It is for the best that she was not present at the royal wedding. She’d have gouged the Viper’s eyes out the second it was time for the consummation. Fond of her claws, that one._ Thin, faint scars burned on Theron’s shoulder with the memory of an invigorated and fresh-wed Celestina. They coursed below a much younger scar – a gift from a snake years ago.

“Tina,” Theron greeted cautiously, listening for her tone. “I was just about to send for you.”

“I apologise for my tardiness.” Celestina primly draped a napkin over her lap.

 _Still cross with me._ Theron sullenly drank his wine. The heat was pleasant against his tongue, different from the chilled variants in the east, though it was not enough to melt his icy wife.

Seated with them was Jericho Wolfheart, the new Lord of Dire Hold. Vincent, his father, had recently passed from issues associated with his age and time on the battlefield. Jericho was not so keen to emulate his sire’s support of a deposed clan, he’d written, and thus wished to lay his sword before Theron in servitude. He now cut his meat with deftness unexpected from the brusque way in which Theron had seen him swing said sword. Auburn hair cascaded atop eyes of dark gold, and the neatly-cropped beard belied his revelry in the chaos of a warzone.

Theron had seldom seen him during the war. Jericho was fond of close combat, leaving the plotting and piece-moving to commanders of Theron’s rank. There was scarcely a siege or battle featuring Jericho that did not end in some unpleasant manner. The man was in his thirties, but he’d already claimed a fearsome reputation amongst the Insurgent side. It was a miracle that his identity had not floated to the crown loyalists.

Across from Jericho was Alysanna Mooreshield, the Lady of Morhammer. She’d barely breached the threshold of adulthood, being a few years older than Viscardi, and had likely raised her banners against Theron at the behest of her more vengeful relatives. Lady Alysanna was quiet and soft-spoken, not unlike Sakura Wolff, and her ringlets of brown hair hid the shyness in her hazel eyes.

Theron did not find her disagreeable. He’d sooner have Viscardi be Lord of Morhammer than that of Dire Hold, but the Wolfhearts had been the more pressing threat at the time. Perhaps, if the gods were good, Jericho would impale himself upon his sword and spare Theron the headache of dissolving Viscardi’s engagement.

“My lord,” Jericho said, breaking the tense silence, “this venison is as fine as any I’d have caught. Did you lead a party to collect it from the forest?”

Theron kept his grip on his cutlery steady. “My eldest children are fond of the hunt,” he replied. “Lorelei is especially skilled. Unfortunately,” his eyes briefly found Luna and Viscardi beside their mother, “I've yet to properly study Westedge’s game and did not hunt the deer myself. Too much to do when it comes to leading the region.”

 _My distractions were spurred on by your clan._ Theron took a bite of food.

“Of course, my lord.”

Theron knew the woods more than he cared to admit. They unnerved him. It was easy to forget that they were there; that they were a source of cover for enemies. He’d _hid_ the majority of his host within the thick trees before the Sack of Scarwood Hold, keeping them concealed from the unsuspecting Wolffs. That, combined with subtly manipulating those who would have been present during Silas’ meeting such that the Hold was filled with either his allies or those who could be swayed once steel was bared, made for an attack that bypassed the need to siege the castle.

The Lycan guards had been patrolling the area since Jericho and Alysanna’s carriages had been spotted along the Adamantine Trail. Theron had limited the number of retainers they could each bring, unwilling to be caught in a trap reminiscent of his own. Matters had been settled diplomatically, their carriages searched and secured, and his guests planned to vacate once all loose ends were tied.

 _Too many precautions would reveal my wariness, but I’d sooner be paranoid than blindsided._ He regarded Alysanna as she traded words with Luna. _It is true enough that a Mooreshield oft follows where a Wolfheart goes. Still, their surrender within the same span of time smells odd. I’d do well to install watchers within their ranks._

“When should we be expecting a funeral for your father, Lord Wolfheart?” Celestina asked. She ate with practiced docility, but Theron could see the supressed glare sent Jericho’s way. “I’ve known him since I was a girl. His friendship with my lord father stretched back to their Garrison days. I’m sure you’ll be needed in Dire Hold for the scheduling.”

“In time, mother,” Jericho smiled. Rage flashed in Celestina’s eyes at the name he’d taken to calling her. “He was a brave man, but a hard one. Our lands will benefit from gentler rulers.”

“Undoubtedly.”

Jericho turned his smile to Viscardi. “Much will change after we are wed. You will blossom into quite a sight, I’m certain. I can already see it now. I await our marriage, my darling.”

“Sure.” Viscardi shovelled food into his mouth.

“Dire Hold is not as grand as its southern sister,” Jericho continued, unperturbed by Viscardi’s brashness and Luna’s occasional stare, “and the clime is not as forgiving. The Northern Sea deigns to freeze now and then, when it grows tired of raging.” He chuckled, eyes still on Viscardi. “Be that as it may. We have much to offer. The castle is built right beneath the upper arm of Remus’ Lights. They are far more beautiful than the curtain in Tear’s End, surpassed only by your loveliness.”

“Thanks.”

“And the feather beds! Such soft things, made from wyverns’ tails. If you ever see such a beast up close, you’d know what I mean. I’ve had them begin preparing a new one for our marriage bed. I can’t wait to use-”

“Viscardi is still a boy,” Celestina interrupted. “It will be a while yet before you can share a bed. Pray keep such comments at a minimum.”

Alysanna flinched at the ice in her voice. Viscardi took a long pull from his cup of honeyberry juice, not dignifying Jericho with his prior verbose responses. Theron himself was none too fond of where Jericho’s words had been leading. He’d been steadily counting the days until Scarwood would bear only his family and household attendants, willing a wyvern to set itself upon Jericho’s carriage along the Adamantine.

Jericho turned to his plate. “Excuse me, mother,” he said, the picture of humility. “That was monstrously crass of me. Viscardi is just such a pretty thing, I could hardly dam my words.”

“You will do so regardless, or you will be damned aside your words.”

Theron entered the conversation then, changing it to a discussion of the resources commanded under Dire Hold and Morhammer. Animals, mining, untapped oil. Large lands waiting to be made arable. It was a dry, tiresome topic, and one that he’d had before a thousand times. Still, he would do good to keep all talk of Viscardi’s wedding to less than a minimum. It was suspicious enough that he’d rejected the Wolfhearts’ proposal to foster Viscardi with them for the duration of his boyhood.

 _Viscardi is, what, sixteen?_ Theron vaguely noted something Alysanna said. _That gives me at least two years to unravel this mess of a marriage._

“Pardon me, Lord Lycan,” Alysanna mumbled, “but you did not respond to my question.”

Theron blinked, dragged out of his head. “Might you repeat it?”

“Lady Sakura and I were close as girls.” Alysanna fiddled with her sleeves. “I was wondering if ... if I would be permitted to visit her?”

Theron tensed and relaxed in half a heartbeat. Celestina had had their family sup with Sakura many a time, although Theron was unsure why. He’d forgone her inclusion on this night. Theron had few qualms about parading Sakura before her father and grandfather as they were sent to the crown’s mercy, but he did not want to remind the Wolfhearts and Mooreshields of what they’d been fighting for. The girl had been obedient to a fault since the forest incident, staying away from the newcomers per Theron’s command.

“She is unavailable,” Theron said crisply. He left no room for argument, and Alysanna wisely did not challenge him.

 _The Wolff children are a threat to the Lycans,_ Theron studied the large banner that hung overtop the unlit fireplace, _and a threat to the Lycans is a threat to the Caedises._ Yet neither Theron nor Ayden seemed particularly ready to order their execution. It seemed both sides were squeamish about the death of children.

 _Viper and Serpent are alike in that regard,_ Theron mused. _Damien Caedis handled the Livingstones much the same way his son means to handle the Wolffs. Though,_ Theron swirled his wine, _he was softer with Lyra than Ayden has been to Sakura._

Theron wondered on occasion how the Insurgency might have progressed had the last two Mage Uprisings not ended as they did. He’d mayhap been Luna’s age when news of Coven’s insurrection reached the Annex. None had thought that Damien would actually kill the Lady and Lord of Living Stone. A lesser clan would not be spared, but not one as old and powerful as the Livingstones. The consensus was that he’d imprison them, put his people in charge of Coven as regents, and then foster their daughter in Sanguis. Once she grew to be a perfect Caedis-loyal woman, she’d assume her titles and perhaps wed one of Damien’s vassals for further assurance of her allegiance.

 _Coven would have fought aside the crown, then, instead of keeping their distance._ Theron’s gaze drifted to Jericho. _The Insurgency would have ended before it began._

Upon taking the Hold, Theron had combed through all of the Wolffs’ possessions and documents for things of note. The former Great Clan had been planning something _big_ since the days of the Old Snake Jocelyn Caedis. Damien’s misstep with Daron Wolfrose was the catalyst they’d needed. Failing to secure Lyra’s loyalty meant that it was not shocking when Coven committed to the Insurgent cause from the shadows, leading to the crown’s loss of influence over Ancient and the Seas and their resulting victories on the field until Briar’s entry forced a change in all sides.

 _In truth,_ Theron thought, _the safest course of action for the crown would have been to disinherit Lyra altogether and choose a new clan, as was done for Sakura. In any case, the girl will cause no trouble as of now. We will see if this changes when she comes of age._

“-Westedge’s blacksmiths,” Jericho was saying. “It’s been too long since I last held a sword and traded blows with a good, strong opponent. Are you trained with a blade, Viscardi?”

“No.”

“A shame. I could teach you, if you like, after you’re settled in Dire Hold.”

“I’m surprised that someone of your age would favour a sword, Lord Jericho,” Theron interjected.

“How so?”

“Surely you joined the war effort in the second half of the Era. Magic changes the flavour of a battlefield and renders swords quite inefficient when its users are present. Your generation would have had firearms as a means of better combat.”

Theron motioned for the dishes to be cleared. “It was a jest amongst my peers that one could tell how long another had been on the field using the weapon they reached for. If they went for a sword, they’d been seasoned by or before the Bloody Serpent’s reign. A firearm indicated the Young Viper.”

Jericho laughed. “I rode cavalry more often than not. Swords are easier to use on horseback than, say, a rifle.” He leaned back as his plate was removed. “I’m fond of bayonets as well. I suppose it is because they offer the best of both worlds.”

Rhys came into the dining room then, face ashen. He bowed quickly, apologized for the interruption, and requested an audience with the Lord and Lady of the castle.

“Can this not wait?” Celestina said, though she did not look displeased at the idea of Jericho’s departure. “I heard the cooks prepared pie with raspberries picked fresh from the shrubs.”

“I’m afraid you’ll want to hear this sooner rather than later, my lady.”

Theron hesitated before waving the guests away. Alysanna rose and curtsied, thanking them politely for hosting, before exiting the room. Luna peered at Rhys with wary curiosity, grabbing the remains of her venison and nibbling on the hunk as she left her chair. Jericho’s muscled arm wrapped around Viscardi’s waist as they stood in tandem, the other drawing Viscardi’s hand to his lips. He withdrew it at Celestina’s near-imperceptible growl.

“Shall you escort me around the grounds while our supper digests?” Jericho asked of Viscardi. “Scarwood Hold looks different these days. I fear I won’t be seeing it much after I ride north.”

“He is busy,” Celestina snapped. “Luna, dear, why don’t you and Viscardi spend some time together? Gods know you two need it. You can use your arrows within the castle this once, though you must do so where there are few people present.”

Viscardi gave a stiff nod, retreating from Jericho’s side. He roughly grabbed Luna’s wrist and took her in the opposite direction of his betrothed, dragging her along despite her protests.

Theron felt his eyebrows creep up when Rhys motioned for even the servants to wait without, though he granted it easily enough. When the dining room was cleared, Theron faced the chamberlain and irritably asked his question.

“What is it?”

***  
Sakura Wolff  
Westedge, 1 Cardinal  
***

The entrance to the garden was marked by flowers blooming happily in the gentle summer sun, but spruce trees grew thicker the deeper one went. They bordered the strong walls of the castle from the interior, wild and unlike the smaller ones lining the cobblestones. Sakura and her siblings would often hang little lanterns on the green nettles each Celestial Festival, and her favourite tree stood stooped and bent from years of enduring their antics.

Sakura found Viscardi beneath her tree. He crouched by the pond that had melted after the snows were gone, furiously scrubbing his hands until they were red and raw. Sakura clutched a basket to herself, the fluffy heads of unearthed dandelions and tiny shrubs peeking from its wicker contents, and debated approaching him.

The decision was made for her when Viscardi sharply glanced up. His honey eyes narrowed, and Sakura felt her heart quicken at the aggression radiating off of him. She made to turn and leave, but something inside of her made her stop.

Scarwood Hold may no longer bear her clan’s standard, but the gardens would always be hers.

 _I am stronger when surrounded by flowers._ She steeled herself and moved closer. _I was named for one of the most beautiful. Mother always said so._

“What do you want?” Viscardi glared.

Sakura set her basket on a patch of dandelions. She began removing them carefully, the way Dionysia had taught her, making sure not to damage the proper flowers near them. She then sat back on her haunches and prepared herself for a conversation with the most recalcitrant Lycan.

“My mother loves the plants,” Sakura began. “She often waved away servants and gardeners, preferring to tend to the garden herself.” She shifted uncomfortably at Viscardi’s unbroken gaze. “I know that your clan employs groundkeepers, but it is nice to exercise care over the garden when I am able.”

Viscardi was silent as she spoke. Sakura hesitated before rising and continuing on her course. She slid her twin braids across her back, pushing aside the stray strands of hair that stuck to her forehead. Viscardi did not move from his spot, listlessly tossing small stones to disrupt the dark depths of the still pond.

Sakura put his unexpected presence out of her mind. She soon lost herself in the routine, humming under her breath. Her ears detected the dull sound of something hitting wood. Birds chirped. A warm breeze blew the scent of fresh pie from the kitchens, and Sakura felt her stomach rumble. She’d eaten supper already, ensconced in her chambers, but she considered heading to the cooks and requesting a small slice once the Lycans and their guests had finished dining.

She blinked. “Lord Viscardi,” Sakura said, confused.

“What?”

“Why are you in the gardens?” _I’ve yet to see you spend any amount of time here._

As usual, Viscardi bristled. “Am I not allowed to be here, too? Do I now need permission to sit in the stupid gardens?” He crossed his arms. “Oh, look, here comes Rhys from behind that tree. Here to make a huge deal out of nothing.”

Sakura paused. She swiftly checked for Rhys, no fonder of him for returning her to Theron like some common criminal than Viscardi was. She sighed in relief at his absence, realizing that Viscardi had been joking.

“I did not mean to cause offense,” Sakura said. “It’s just … your family normally sups around this hour. Why are you not with them?”

Viscardi scowled. “We finished early tonight.” His face softened into more of a frown. “Your friend was looking for you.”

“My friend?”

“Alysanna. She said she wanted to talk to you.”

 _Who is Alysanna?_ Sakura wondered. “Thank you for telling me.”

Viscardi shrugged as a response. Sakura retrieved her basket, full from a day spent toiling in the soil, and stared at the dandelions with consideration. She sat at the other end of the pond and began weaving the stems together, pleased with the fullness of the crown. Viscardi leaned on the base of her tree and watched her.

“Did Lorelei show you how to make those?” He asked after a brief silence. “She’s always doing that flower thing.”

Sakura shook her head. “No, my lord. I learned it from one of my handmaidens. She was from a village south of here, and she taught Cornelia and I how to sew and weave.”

“Where is she now?”

Sakura paused. She’d scarcely thought of the more mundane details of her old life, having grown accustomed to living under the Lycans’ hospitality. A majority of the faces in the castle were new to her – new attendants, new cooks, new groundkeepers. The few that she did recognize – Rhys came to mind – were people that she could no longer look to for affection. Most of the old Wolff household would likely have been dismissed in favour of Theron’s own people, she realized.

 _That, or they did not live to see the end of the war._ “I don’t know.” Sakura forced a smile. “Perhaps she returned to her village.”

“Perhaps.” Viscardi crossed his arms, brown hair bunched around his face. “I know a story about a village.”

“How does it go?”

Sakura was surprised at the ease in which she conversed with Viscardi. She listened to him as she made a second crown, eyes tracking a plump toad that hopped from the pond. Her fingers moved nimbly, and the new crown formed much faster than the first.

“And they were from the same village,” Viscardi concluded.

Sakura gasped. “ _No._ ”

“The best part is that-”

His words were broken when an arrow shot towards the toad. Sakura and Viscardi both jumped in surprise. The poor toad frantically raced back into the safety of the water. Viscardi’s countenance changed to the usual irritability. Sakura clutched her chest and breathed deeply, willing her heart to reassume its old pace.

“The _fuck,_ Luna?” Viscardi chided. “Don’t shoot at people unless you mean to hit them!”

“Maybe I do.” Luna stalked out from behind a tree, looking disappointed at having missed the toad. “Quill does it all the time, and he’s never hit me.”

“Quill isn’t an eight-year-old girl with shit for aim.”

Luna’s cheeks puffed out at the comment. She glanced between Sakura and Viscardi, lightly scuffing the earth with her feet. The brown twin braids of her hair had partially come undone. Her hands fiddled with the smooth curve of her bow, eyes slightly downcast.

Sakura knew that expression. She’d seen it on Elias many a time, whenever he would stand outside of her chambers after a hunt with Archie and their grandfather. Elias had been more suited to scholarly tidings than anything else, a trait that Silas had coarsely bemoaned in both his son and second grandson. Sakura had learned to tell when her little brother sought someone but was unwilling to say it.

“Is something the matter, Luna?” Sakura asked.

Luna stalled before pointing yonder. “I was trying to hit a squirrel-”

“What the hell is with you and squirrels?” Viscardi mumbled.

“-and it ran all the way up a tree. Lost a bunch of my arrows, and the stupid thing escaped.” Luna worried at her lip. “Jaya said she won’t make me any more arrows for a month because I keep losing them. So, I need to conserve what I have.”

Viscardi huffed. “I’m not climbing up to get them, if that’s what you’re about to ask. You can’t have _my_ arrows, either. That’s what you get for aiming high.”

Luna’s face reddened. “I wasn’t _going_ to ask you to climb! I just need you to stand there and make sure I don’t … fall. Or something.” 

Sakura perked up. “I can do it,” she offered. “My siblings and I climbed the sturdiest trees all the time. Show me where your arrows are and I can get them for you.”

Luna capitulated with relief clear in her eyes, leading Sakura to one of the scattered deciduous trees. Its branches were good and thick, Sakura observed, and would hold her weight well. She took note of where the arrows lay, mapped the best course to take, and nodded to herself in determination.

“I’ll throw them down as I go,” Sakura said, tying up the ends of her dress.

She leapt for a lower branch, unsheathing her claws for better purchase. Once satisfied with her hold, Sakura kept on. Higher and higher she climbed, feeling a thrill of youthful exhilaration at enjoying an old pastime after so long. Viscardi stood below with Luna, his eyes averted. Luna scurried around, collecting each arrow that sailed to the bottom.

“It’s not my fault if you fall,” Viscardi called, gaze still trained at his shoes.

“I’ve never fallen.”

Sakura allowed a tease to drop into her voice. She felt a child again, racing Archie to the tops of the trees while Cornelia and Elias fretted underneath. They’d look at her with wide amber eyes, begging her to be careful. Her father would be there, too, sometimes. Waiting, smiling, ready to catch her.

It was a small task to return the arrows to their owner. Sakura sat on a middling branch, strangely disappointed. She smirked to herself and went higher regardless, feeling the breeze in her hair. Sakura exhaled in delight when she reached the top.

Scarwood Hold stretched out before her, with Westedge in the distance. Its walls and structures rose proudly, showing the ruler of the Annex’s dominion over the land.

The keep was relatively young as far as some of the great castles of Eurydice went. It was built as a fortress by the old blood of Lunae Lumen. They’d meant to reconstruct their kingdom, Elias would tell her, before the Annex was instituted as the seventh region. One peek at Scarwood Hold and the massive Wolfwall had convinced the Grand Seer-Sovereigns of the Ambition Era that Rosemont’s Annex could be a land most powerful, and they’d wisely offered it a governorship to discourage future wars.

Sakura stroked the cracked bark of the tree, pondering. Her ancestors were rulers once. The strongest and most ancient castles in the region were meant to bear their trusted vassals. Dire Hold, Celestial Abbey, Morhammer, Wolf’s Wrath, Redhound. They’d all traded their sovereignty for the comfortable safety of existence within a larger kingdom. Her grandfather often called himself a Sovereign in his last days, Sakura mused, intent on taking what was owed to their clan.

 _A style that his vassals addressed him as to his face and cursed at his back._ The ghost of Silas’ snarls snapped in her mind. _Lord Theron could have done the same, if he wanted. I think Lady Lorelei would have made a good Sovereign._

Sakura jumped when she heard a scream.

She nearly fell when it occurred again, loud and anguished. She caught herself in time, awkwardly scrambling down the tree. Luna stood at attention, her canid ears bared and twitching. The youngest Lycan sprinted away at the third wail. Viscardi remained a while longer, helping Sakura to the ground before tearing after his sister.

Sakura followed, not even stopping to grab her basket of dandelions. Her dress tie had unravelled in her haste to dismount, and so she periodically stumbled on her skirts. The evening light broke out as she made her way to the castle’s yard.

There was a great commotion about the place. Sakura tracked the source of the wails, her eyes widening when she saw Celestina Lycan. The Lady of Scarwood Hold knelt on the ground, her deep purple skirt billowing around her, and clutched a hand over her lips. Tears ran down her eyes like rivers, and her brown hair was supremely dishevelled. Servants nervously approached Celestina, but they all backed away when her shoulders were beset with heavy sobs.

People were gathered. Watching, waiting.

 _What is happening?_ Sakura and Viscardi exchanged a glance.

Luna dropped her bow, sprinting to her mother. She only stopped when Theron Lycan broke through the mass of spectators. Sakura sidled up as close as she dared, concerned.

“Tina,” Sakura heard Theron say, voice pained and soft. He placed a hand on her shoulder. “Tina, please, come back inside.”

“They have my son! _My baby_!” Celestina pushed him off, her teeth bared. “This is your fault! You sent him to those Remus-cursed rocks. Oh, _Ezra!”_

Sakura flinched as more tears fell from Celestina’s golden eyes. Theron seized his wife’s hands before she could claw at her face. She fought against him all the while, eventually giving up and letting him wrap his arms around her. Theron’s fingers carded through her hair, shock written across his features.

“What’s wrong with Lord Ezra?” Sakura whispered to Viscardi.

“I don’t know.”

Viscardi joined Luna as she hovered near their parents. Celestina’s grief-stricken visage found her children. She pulled away from her husband and instead caressed them tightly, her body shaking. Luna patted her back with uncertainty while Viscardi returned the embrace.

Sakura stood to the back as Theron urged his family to wait within the castle. He scarcely spared her a glance. She clasped her hands together, unsure of what to do. Lord Ezra, Celestina had mentioned. Was there trouble afoot in Beowulf Tower?

A young woman bumped into Sakura.

“Excuse me,” she muttered. She curtsied and swiftly vanished in the crowd.

Sakura blinked when she noticed a slip of paper had been placed in her hand. She turned around, meaning to find the woman, but she was already gone.

 _Was this meant for me? Or did that lady misplace it?_ Sakura held the paper, her palms suddenly sweating. She searched for the woman again, sighing at the futility.

It took much coaxing before Theron was able to persuade Celestina to exit the yard. Their children were escorted in as well. Sakura was not told to follow, and so she circled back to the gardens for her basket. The spectators thinned out at the cessation of Celestina’s cries, returning to their everyday duties.

The quiet in the garden now seemed odd without Viscardi and Luna present. Sakura stacked her dandelion chains in the basket, no longer up to the task of weaving them. She paused at the rustle of the paper she still held.

Sakura furrowed her brows. She surveyed her surroundings before unfolding the thin strip. Amber eyes widened when she took in the unfamiliar handwriting. Time stopped as she read the singular sentence over and over, digesting the short message.

_‘We shall take what they owe, Your Majesty.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally got the remade FF7. Cloud is sooo pretty. Imagine Cloud with darker skin and black hair … boom! Quill. And Reno as Ares ... head full many thoughts.


	42. White Lilies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The giggle at a funeral

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hyperion is growing on me.  
> I love how the recent Potentates have gone white lilies > white poppies > (white) moonflowers > black roses. Way to ruin everything, Corvus.

Hyperion Tydus  
Courtmere, 1 Cardinal

***

Hyperion traversed the House of the Five Faiths, eyes turning this way and that as he took in the paintings that chronicled the history of Orpheus. Floors, ceilings, and even the glass windows themselves were adorned with the painstaking work of hundreds of artists over hundreds of years. The House sparkled in a multitude of colours. 

Before Eurydice was born in Fire, there was the Dark Era.

Dark magic, its daughter blood magic, and forms stranger still ruled the continent in the days when alchemy and elemental magic were not forefront. A hundred kingdoms, a hundred rulers, a hundred magics. Hyperion took in the images surrounding him, ones which showed the bloodmages of the ruined Echolyte Empire in their prime. The empire had stretched out over Orpheus, hungrily lapping up the boundaries of its neighbours. Slaves were depicted in servitude to the extinct race – ordinary mages, sirens, commonfolk, elves, werewolves, dragonfolk, and many more who would vanish over the subsequent Eras.

 _But not vampires._ _Never us. We bow to no one._

Hyperion regarded the depictions of dragonfolk with fascination. He’d learnt of them in his personal studies; had seen a number aboard the brown-line trains whenever his work took him to other parts of Ancient. Their race was rarely seen in the annals of the kingdom. While the wild werewolves had been dragged kicking and screaming into Eurydice, the meek dragonfolk were pushed across the Southern Sea in a migration less … dramatic.

Original inhabitants of the lands that would become the Sanguin Empire and later Sanguis, the dragonfolk had been the first to tame dragons. Legends said they even bred with them, a notion that Hyperion was willing to believe. Horns lined their heads much like the titans of Boreas, with scales thicker than those of sirens and darker skin more often than not. The dragons they’d kept were small, practically cattle, until vampires had unleashed their true potential.

Footsteps rang out across the cavernous hallway as Hyperion walked. He stopped at a painting showing ships crossing the Eastern Channel, knowing what it represented. A great voyage in the Dark Era saw many vampires leaving their native Amaterasu for the continent at the centre of the world. They’d travelled Orpheus, collecting thralls as they explored, before settling in the comfortably shaded east.

The dragonfolk gave vampires the secrets behind their dragons, teaching them to ride and temper their flames. In time, they’d give them their lands and trade Orpheus for Prometheus. Those that stayed heralded the formation of a new vampiric class: the dragon-riders, born from the union of vampires and dragonfolk. Their descendants occupied much of southern Sanguis, their skin and hair remnants of the those who once soared the skies.

Hyperion paused in Echolyse’s Sanctuary. Broken light streamed in from the tinted windows, illuminating the visages of the Echolysian Faith’s paragons. The two largest ones were side by side. Their eyes met Hyperion’s.

 _Before Caedis cloaked the world in gold,_ Hyperion thought, _Bloodworth wrought fire._

The Wars of Conquest were a proud time in Sanguin history. Old and failing, the Echolyte Empire was bested by the fledgling Sanguin Empire. It shattered into numerous kingdoms, the nearest of them subject to the mercy of the vampiric emperors. How they’d claimed their spoils.

 _I can only imagine what_ that _mercy entailed._ Hyperion stood beneath Adrienne Bloodworth, ignoring the stooped cleaners as they tended to the floors. _Woe to the conquered._

The freed mages of the west, a people as arrogant as the Echolyte bloodmages but nowhere near as powerful, united and formed the Kingdom of Coven. Their cousins to the south preferred another style, another ruler. The rise of the First Sovereign marked the dawn of the Fire Era. Following the First’s death, an agreement was struck between the young Eurydice and the Sanguin Empire to avoid a new war of magic and dragons. ‘Eurydice’ became Ancient, the Sanguin Empire became Sanguis, and the emperors became Sovereigns.

And after the Kingdom of Coven denounced the allegiance of her sister to an enemy, Sovereign Adrienne Bloodworth brought despair to their doors. Prince Lucien Beaumont of Coven became Potentate when he wed the Dragonblood, a station that elevated him above a simple consort, and the blood of the Echolyte emperors joined their Sanguin counterparts in the child that they had together. Potentate Lucien’s efforts at inspiring unity amongst the three regions did not go unnoticed. Sovereign Adrienne abandoned thraldom and embraced Echolyse. They both became paragons of the faith after their deaths, an honour of the holiest level.

Hyperion admired their depictions. Mammon, Lucien’s opalescent dragon gifted from Adrienne’s own prized stock, glittered in the glass painting. Asmodeus loomed behind Adrienne, a fearsome beast of black and red. Adrienne the Dragonblood was fearsome herself, with silver hair and dark skin and blood-red eyes.

 _Their marriage did not prevent future clashes between vampires and mages._ Hyperion gazed at the writhing mass of dragons and alchemy on the ceiling. It was undoubtedly the War of the Dragons, precipitated by Adrienne’s first consort Cayne and their son Prince Grigori. Cayne’s rage at Adrienne for naming her daughter by Lucien as heir over his own child had burned hotter than dragon fire.

‘Lucien is a crowned Potentate. He sits higher than you consorts, and my children through him shall surpass their siblings’, were Adrienne’s translated words on the matter.

 _I’d be incensed if I was the Heir Apparent,_ Hyperion mused, _and my mother chose my younger sibling – half a foreigner themselves – over me._

 _You are alike in that regard,_ Enoch Tydus’ voice rang in his ears. _That throne you love so much has no want of either of you. Grigori was able to secure it in the end, but what have_ you _done? Hunched over books and papers, satisfied with merely glimpsing the Red Throne as you scurried on your way to obey the Viper?_

“Why can’t you _stay dead_?” Hyperion hissed, momentarily forgetting that he was not completely alone. “It should have been mine. I’d sit it now, if not for her.”

 _Would you?_ Enoch lifted a cup of tea to his lips.

Hyperion stalked out of the Sanctuary, shaking his head to dispel Enoch’s irritating smugness. A scullion grumbled as he walked over an area they had just mopped, but Hyperion felt nary a concern. He passed by stories of creation on his journey: werewolves dropping forth from the moon, sirens rising amidst the waves, elves dancing amongst the elements, commonfolk gathered at the feet of the Holy Mother.

The sunlight was fading when Hyperion made his way outside. Electrical lights twinkled one by one, wisps of the bright cadence that would befall the city come night-time.

Hyperion sighed as the breeze ruffled his hair. It carried the sounds of the worshippers still within the temples. Sedna’s Sanctuary was the closest, a fact punctuated by the musical tones of Sirensong. Many claimed that the language had a pull when sung, but Hyperion scarce felt anything beyond irritation at how _loud_ the sirens were.

A small garden off to the side drew his attention. In it was a statue of a woman carved from white stone. She gleamed in the weakening light, well-maintained and polished.

Hyperion approached it after a person finished kneeling at the base. The statue was large – not quite as imposing as those of the five gods in their Sanctuaries – and rested on a podium that overlooked Courtmere. White lilies bloomed in green hedges and bushes, large and sweet-smelling. A few had been woven together and placed in the statue’s lap. She smiled demurely at all who chanced upon her.

_Her Grace, Lilith von Drake. A wife, a mother, a Potentate. May Echolyse guide her steps, as she once guided ours._

Hyperion snorted after reading the plaque. One would think the late Potentate the sixth god with the way her statue was designed. He supposed she _was_ , to a certain degree. The Insurgents had Daron Wolfrose as the heart of their rebellion; the crown loyalists bellowed Lilith’s name for every werewolf slain.

Yet how could Hyperion share his people’s fervent love for Lilith von Drake, knowing that her place as Potentate was stolen from his mother? That the Red Throne could have – _should have_ – been his?

“Have you come to plant a lily?” came a serene voice.

Hyperion turned towards them, letting the glare on his face soften into his usual expression. A man moved languidly through the flowers, his robes swishing behind him. His smile and green eyes were appreciably hard to place. The dark mark that peeked out from his close-fitting sleeves were indicative of a mage. Blond roots peeked from a mass of wavy black hair.

“Councillor Sven Gali,” Hyperion said, dipping his head. “I was waiting for your service to be concluded. There was no need to find me yourself. A servant could have been sent.”

“Echolyse gave me two strong legs, and I shall not spurn her by using those of others.” Sven laughed breezily. “You are always welcome to _attend_ the services _,_ my lord.” He clasped his hands in front of himself, coming to a stop shy of Lilith. “I’m no Calliope. Even _I_ would run out of breath if I had to channel as much passion as she does.”

Hyperion hummed. He crossed his arms, many things swirling through his mind. Sven Gali seated himself on a nearby bench, exhaling. He was an older man, in his fifties perhaps. A member of the Council of the Seer, Sven had become a person of interest to Hyperion. His quickly-growing group of followers styled themselves as True Echolytes regardless of race or origin, and they were as devoted to the Echolysian Faith as their Councillor.

All of this would have mattered little and less to Hyperion, had Sven Gali not come a close second to Calliope after the old Grand Seer had taken leave of the office. Hyperion _had_ attended a number of Sven’s services to scout a potential ally. Many were not so different from an ordinary afternoon in a temple, but the man did have some _interesting_ personal beliefs.

Namely, Sven was as fond of the current Caedis Dynasty as Hyperion was. Such ideology was rare in northern Ancient, but it was remarkable how much variation could exist in a region.

“You seem quite fascinated with Potentate Lilith’s memorial,” Sven said. He adjusted his robes. “Are you sure you do not wish to plant a lily? It is why many people venture to this side of the House of the Five Faiths.”

Hyperion shook his head. “Seeing her statue reminds me of her death. I was still clutching my mother’s skirts when it happened.” _As if Lenora would ever let a child cling to her._ “Correct me if I’m wrong, but you seem an older man. Surely you remember that day.”

“There is nothing to correct, my lord. Your assumption is true.” Sven’s fingers traced the symbol of Echolyse that he wore at the end of his necklace. “I was a young man at the time. It was only recently that I had completed my training as a cleric. One moment, I had learned to recite the Arcanum Antiquis front to back; the next, our beloved Potentate was dead and perhaps the most popular of the recent Suzerains stood accused of killing her.”

“Did he?”

“I cannot say, for I was not there. Newspapers and word-of-mouth were my surest companions in that year. What I _can_ say is that Sovereign Damien had the holiest person in all of the kingdom advising him after Her Grace’s passing.” Sven’s enigmatic smile dropped. “What do you do when the head fights with the tail? Do you remove the head, or do you remove the tail?”

Hyperion blinked at the sudden question. “Is that a verse from the Arcanum Antiquis? I haven’t yet learnt it front to back.”

“It’s a simple question.”

“I’d remove the tail. A body can survive without a tail, if somewhat less comfortably.” He huffed. “Ideally, the head and the tail would be balanced.”

Sven smiled. “Ideally. Even so, that is what happened during Wolfrose’s lengthy trial. Grand Seer Claudius – may he rest in peace – bid Damien absolve Wolfrose of all crimes. Damien had the Council campaigning for Wolfrose’s release, and he placed the crown above the faith anyway. The War Era was Echolyse’s punishment.”

 _The views of Ancient are oft derived from the Council._ Hyperion watched a woman through the hedges as an elven man instructed her on the ways of handling flower seeds. _The Clan Heads must have wanted nothing to do with the Sovereign after his battle with Claudius._

“We are now in the Cardinal Era,” Hyperion said. “Echolyse’s wrath has been soothed.”

“Calliope seems to hold to that notion.” Sven rose, beckoning Hyperion follow him. They returned to the confines of the House, taking a different path from the one Hyperion had navigated. “I, however, cannot share her optimism.”

“Why not?”

Sven led them past the well-travelled hallways, into one that was narrower and quieter. A few clerics lingered about, bowing in respect to their senior. Sven greeted each of them in turn. Hyperion resisted rolling his eyes, wanting to resume their conversation.

They finally idled beneath a large, fine piece showing all the five gods seated at a table. Echolyse sat at the head of the table; Dadia and the Nymphae occupied her left and right. Remus and Sedna were aside Dadia and the Nymphae respectively.

“I’ve always loved this artwork,” Sven said, gazing at it. “Can you tell why?”

Hyperion shrugged. “Solidarity. The five gods are all seated together, showing the harmony in the realm.” _All the things that people bleat._

“Seated together they all are, but Echolyse commands the lesser gods from the head. It is her table, and they serve at her pleasure. That was how it was intended.” Sven’s green eyes held a wild fire in them. “Your people recognized this and chose to abandon their idols for the one true god. The other regions would have done the same, too, if not for Sovereign Dadia.” He shook his head. “What a blasphemous thing, to be named after a god. Yet even she conceded defeat and swore before Echolyse at her coronation.

“You asked why I do not share Calliope’s enthusiasm,” Sven continued. “I give you my answer. Sovereign Damien was scarcely a friend after he threw the urgings of the faith back in our faces. Sovereign Ayden is more complex. He is not a friend to the faith. Neither is he an enemy. I argue that the Sovereign _should_ be a friend, but I shall set that aside for now.

“The man he keeps at his side is a different case altogether.” Sven laughed with little mirth. “I’m no noble, but I understand how your caste works. Theirs is a marriage most political, and it is hardly the first time that the Potentate was not Echolysian. That being said, I’ve yet to see one desecrate a place as sacred as the Iron Cathedral as His Grace so spectacularly did. Swearing before _two_ gods at his coronation, instead of the one championed by the throne? Had I been there, I would’ve torn the orb and sceptre from his hands. If I was unsure of where the faith stood in Sovereign Ayden’s eyes, I had my answer then. The Potentate may very well sever what little connection remains between the faith and the crown.”

Hyperion noted the way Sven clutched his hands together in a tight ball. “These are dangerous ideas, Councillor.”

Sven turned to Hyperion, green eyes searching. Hyperion was reminded of a silent meeting he’d endured years ago. He’d chanced upon Damien Caedis once, on a visit to Serpentspire. Those red eyes had been searching, too, when the former Sovereign had looked at him _._ Hyperion would pay a thousand crowns to find out what people were always _searching_ for.

“Shall you have me arrested, Lord Master?” Sven asked drily. “It won’t be the first time I was made to suffer under orders of the Inner Circle.”

“There’s no need for that.” Hyperion’s eyes traced Remus’ profile. “Our talk has been enlightening, but I _did_ come here for a reason.”

“What might it be?”

“The next Grand Seer. I hear Calliope means to step down.” 

“She does. Her term was fervent, but we must all rest eventually.”

“When it comes time for the Councilors to choose a new leader, are you certain that the mantle will fall to you? Let me know if not, and I will offer my assistance.” _Councilors with powerful friends stand the best chance of winning the title, and I am as powerful a friend as they come._

“I am not Echolyse; I do not presume to see all,” Sven said. “Still, I know a number of my fellows are willing to cast their ballots towards those whose faith is true. Change is coming - of that much I can say.”

Hyperion rested a hand on Sven’s shoulder. “As I said, I am more than willing to usher in that change. The Grand Seer is the one person in the realm that can challenge the Sovereign. I mean to see such power placed in proper hands.”

Sven’s smile reassumed its place. “Echolyse will do what she pleases. Should my appointment as Grand Seer please her, she shall use her most loyal vessels to see it through.” 

Hyperion nodded. He bowed and made to take his leave, hesitating as a thought occurred to him. Sven remained where he stood, neck craned towards Echolyse and her table.

“You said you weren’t a noble,” Hyperion recalled. “Forgive me if I doubt you, Councillor. You call yourself an ordinary man, but you are a Covenese highborn. You speak like one.”

Sven did not turn around. “Do I? I swore I’d lost my accent.”

“Mostly, but there is enough of the west if one is skilled at detection. Which clan do you belong to, then? Some lower vassal? I’ve yet to hear of the Gali Clan.”

“There are many nobles in Coven, but not enough castles for all of them. The clericy is a kingdom, and all temples of Echolyse are our castles.” Sven partially faced him. “Echolyse gave me a new name and a new purpose when I joined the clericy. It matters little who I was before. My heart, my mind, my body are all for her.”

_A True Echolyte, indeed._

Sven returned to the picture as Hyperion considered the scene before him. Given the way the artists had fashioned the piece, the audience seemed like they were the sixth person at the table. If so, the perspective put them at the other head.

Hyperion left the way Sven had led him, ruminating on the question posed beneath Lilith’s statue. _The crown and the faith were two sides of the same coin, yes_ , _but who is the head and who is the tail?_

***

Smoke billowed from the cigarette hanging from Hyperion’s mouth. He leaned forward at the desk, rubbing his temples to stave off the budding headache. Vehicles and trains thundered in the distance, chasing the Ironhill in sheer noisiness.

The Southside Court Palace was a secondary residence, one typically reserved for when the royal family or members of the Inner Circle needed to spend a fair amount of time in southern Ancient. It was smaller though no less opulent than the Redfyre Palace, comparable to the manor that Hyperion had purchased in the North Village of the Iron City.

Southside Court’s staff was kept partially operational, not enough to burden the crown but always prepared to host one of the leaders of the kingdom. The palace was already functioning at a higher capacity when Hyperion arrived, as Lady Livingstone had travelled south much earlier on her mission to investigate the Ancienti clans.

Both of them danced around each other, polite but not particularly interested in exchanging more than morning pleasantries. Hyperion had claimed chambers as far from Lyra as possible, wary after finding her seated aside a wineglass reminiscent of the one he’d misplaced. Shock had coursed through him that day as she had sipped her own wine with her legs crossed, the sheer posture screaming _I know what you’ve been doing._ It helped little that she’d been the first to question his suggestion that they use Julius Wolff’s life to purchase Quill’s.

“My lord?”

Hyperion jumped at the unexpected sound. The butler on duty idled by the door of the spacious office. He stood with his hands folded neatly behind him.

“What is it?” Hyperion asked, returning to his documents.

“Might I know what you wish to dine on tonight?” The butler stalked forward and presented a list of dishes for Hyperion’s choosing. “You will enjoy all of these, but it is best to collect your request ahead of time. Some are not so swift in their preparation.”

Hyperion stared at the list, barely reading it, before handing it back to the butler. A nostalgic mood had befallen him. Being outside of the Ironhill did wonders for clearing one’s head.

“Tell the cooks to gather the ingredients for this,” he said, pointing to the most enticing option. “Do not let them do anything other than prepare them. I will take care of the rest when I am ready. Have them vacate the kitchen once they are done. You are dismissed.”

“At once, my lord.” The butler bowed and retreated.

Hyperion rose and opened a window, blowing the smoke from his cigarette into the warm air. Automobiles crawled in the streets like colourful insects. Hyperion tracked the mess of criss-crossed train tracks that ran alongside them. His manifolds fluttered atop the desk, a gentle reminder of the tasks he was temporarily ignoring. He sighed.

Prior to the Liberation, morale within the Sanguin divisions of the Garrison had been low. The Viper was more effective in his command than the Serpent, to be sure, but that had been due in large part to the fresh and _magical_ armies of Briar. Selene Caedis’ death had been a boon in more ways than one, relighting the fire in the vampires that had been steadily fading with each new year of the War Era. Enlistment in the military – paired with Hyperion’s own subtle conscription of the less passionate – had seen the barracks swelling across the kingdom.

Many of those eager youths would die in the battles to come, forcing Hyperion to side-line his own plans if he wished to keep his station close to the throne. In truth, he’d spent many of those years undoing what Damien Caedis’ previous Masters of Defence had done.

The most irritating had been the ban on werewolves in the Garrison after the Invasion of Stepes. Hyperion understood the hesitation of the previous Inner Circle that had existed before Ayden commissioned younger advisors. With so many of the Insurgents being werewolves, who was to say that the eastern variants would not abandon the crown once they met on the battlefield? Eastern werewolves fell under even more scrutiny when the Insurgents breached Sanguis itself. Few establishments were willing to endanger themselves by employing them.

 _Still,_ Hyperion thought, _the werewolf population in Sanguis had once been sizable before many fled. I remember a time when their numbers rivalled those of vampires in Starkhall. So many able bodies squandered on the streets. If nothing else, they were useful for overturning my parents’ blunders and later restocking the army in preparation for the next bout of the war._

The next bout that never came.

Hyperion’s compulsory military service programs were now threatened in light of the peace in the realm. The Impasse Treaty may have blocked his intimate control over the forts in the neutral regions, but it had also paid for the former size of the crown’s forces. Now Hyperion needed to work with a smaller army and a smaller budget. Lovely.

He put out the cigarette and padded down to the kitchen. As expected, the cooks had left the ingredients waiting. Vegetables, spices, meat cleaned but undrained. Hyperion rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and tied his hair, sweeping loose strands away before setting to work.

The meat was the first thing he treated. He sliced the flesh with precision, draining the blood into a separate receptacle. This he placed in an icebox for later. Hyperion breathed in the scent of the onions and seasonings as they cooked, stirring as needed. He added a slab of meat to the stove, watching so that it retained a bit of its blood. Traditional food was all well and good, but he sought nourishment in addition to enjoyment.

“Did you not hear me, boy?” came a dry, sharp tongue. “I said I wanted a cup of coffee.”

Hyperion stiffened. Had he grown so accustomed to the protocol of the Ironhill that Courtmere vexed him? How many times was he going to be surprised by others?

“I sincerely hope you find one,” Hyperion replied.

Lyra Livingstone blinked. “Lord Tydus. My apologies. I mistook you for a servant.”

“See to it that it does not happen again.”

“What am I to conclude, when I see a strange man working in a palace I seldom visit? It was a reasonable mistake.” Lyra frowned, drawing closer. “What are you doing?”

Hyperion basted the meat, admiring the dark red. “What else would I be doing in a kitchen?”

“I wasn’t aware that you knew how to cook.”

“There is much you don’t know about me.” Hyperion kept his eyes trained downward.

Lyra peered curiously over the stove, earning his unspoken ire. “Is this the part where you confess all of your secrets?”

“Only if you confess yours first.”

Lyra rolled her eyes. She plotted around the kitchen, opening cabinets and drawers in search of something. She found it eventually, returning from an alcove with an unopened bottle of wine. Hyperion accepted her offer to share it, observant of her every move.

“When did you learn?” Lyra inquired.

Hyperion paused. He fished around for some tale to feed her, eventually settling on a diluted version of the truth. “When I was younger. My brother’s palate is unique. He inspired me.”

 _Unique_ was one way of describing it. Vampires tolerated food well enough, but they would be just as satiated on blood alone. Ares had been given blood after being weaned from his wet nurse, as was common in northern Sanguis, before the family doctor had noticed how weak he grew over the months. It wasn’t until he’d gorged himself on traditional food fed to him by a non-vampiric servant that the doctor realized he’d been slowly starving. Ares’ body needed traditional food paired with blood. _Needed,_ not tolerated.

 _As if his red hair was not damning enough. It took a complete overhaul of Dragonfyre Keep’s staff to quieten the_ whispers _after that revelation._

“So,” Lyra drawled, pouring two generous portions of Ancienti gold, “you are a man with powerful titles, considerable fortune, and domestic skills.” She pursed her lips. “Why are you not married? Surely someone as decorated as you will be in want of a spouse.”

 _Why is everyone so concerned about my marital status?_ “Eurydice is a demanding mistress.” Hyperion transferred the components of his dish onto a plate. “I’m married to my work.”

“Oh, shut up.” Lyra swirled her wine. “At least tell me you’ve lost your maidenhead.”

“Assuming I haven’t, are you offering to take it?” Hyperion retrieved the drained blood from the icebox. He served himself a portion of food, dribbling the blood atop it. “My chambers in the Master’s Suites are not so far from yours, and I keep my doors unlocked. I’ll be expecting rose petals, candles, and red wine when you deflower me.”

Lyra snorted. “He _does_ have a sense of humour.”

“What say you, Lady Livingstone?” Hyperion next dished a serving for his unanticipated guest, excluding any blood. Lyra raised a brow as the plate was presented before her, though she accepted it soon enough. “You were wed once. Have _you_ no interest in remarriage?”

“Are you offering?” Lyra took a bite. She hummed pleasantly, the sound dangerously close to a compliment. “Might I interest you in a career as a chef? I imagine the Master of Defence has little to do when there is no war.”

 _As if the Master of Society does anything at all. Your station is so auxiliary that a bit of conflict is sufficient to see it rendered useless._ “I doubt I have room in my schedule.”

Hyperion ate with practiced patience. The blood was cool and rich against his tongue, its flavour lacking the underlying sweetness that came with sanguinem. He washed it down with the Ancienti gold, wrinkling his nose at the sharp bubbles.

“I hear your grandchild might be my niece or nephew,” Hyperion said, feigning indifference. Here he’d spent years shielding Reyna from tedious marriages, and she’d ran into a new one. “Should you not have consulted me before striking a match between my sister and your son?”

Lyra dabbed at her lips. “Lady Reyna is a woman grown. She doesn’t need her brother’s permission to wed.”

“Her _brother_ is the Clan Head, and she is to inherit the Tydus lands. It seems I am being deprived of an heir.”

“Then find a spouse and make more. Come now, Lord Tydus, I shan’t spell it out for you. If you’ve a taste for women, problem solved. If you prefer men, summon a surrogate to bear a child in your name.”

 _Is this some ploy to separate my strength from Reyna’s?_ Hyperion forced himself to think rationally. _The next Governor of Coven is a strong match, but a marriage would leave Isabelle my heir. As intelligent as she is, she has no mind for politics. I will not see the Tydus Clan return to the days of Enoch and Lenora._

“You need not rely on your siblings as heirs at this age,” Lyra was saying. “How have you gone so long without a partner?”

Hyperion grit his teeth. “I’ve been busy. Marriage and family life do not agree with me.”

Memories of his boyhood eclipsed him. The seething flames of Enoch and Lenora’s hatred for each other. Lenora’s fading screams as the life left her body. Enoch’s overwhelming indifference after he was made a widower, and the _look_ on his face when his second son was presented to him. Hyperion holding a babe while covered in blood, shaking as the weight of what he’d done dawned on him. Ares’ high-pitched cries. Hyperion had wanted to cry, too, but any tears had vanished the day his mother told him that her heart had broken when she saw his eyes.

_They should have been red._

Hyperion gathered the dishes when he was done, eager for a distraction. He refilled his wine glass and conceded defeat to Lyra. It would be no use protesting what was objectively one of the best matches in the realm.

“If Reyna is to be the next Lady of Living Stone,” Hyperion said measuredly, “she will need servants that can prepare the food of her homeland. Her children, too, will be half vampire. You should know that vampire hybrids are not the same as others, my lady. They have,” he hesitated, “special requirements.”

“Yes, yes.” Lyra waved dismissively. “I’m not dead yet. Such matters will be sorted out.”

“And the wedding ceremony,” Hyperion pressed onwards, “will it be in the style of the Old Covenant or the New?”

Echolyse had once been a god centred on magic, wisdom, knowledge, and creativity amongst others. The conversion of the vampires saw them downplaying her more magical facets, giving rise to the New Covenant that emphasised the Septem portion of the Arcanum Antiquis. Other non-magical converts had adopted the style. Those blessed with magic saw no reason to eschew it, thus separating into the Old Covenant that favoured Tribus.

“It makes no difference to me,” Lyra shrugged. “The Arcanum Antiquis isn’t complete without Tribus and Septem. Reyna will be wed in Coven,” her tone brokered no arguments, “and so the high cleric will naturally be Old Covenant. I can call in one practiced in the New Covenant as a secondary official should she request it.”

“Do so. She will appreciate the gesture.” This way, at least, Lyra could not have the proper Covenese ceremony she’d intended. It was petty vengeance, but vengeance all the same.

 _I hope the Livingstones are ready,_ Hyperion scoffed to himself. _Reyna loves to break her toys._

\---  
_Fort Crown_  
\---

The aircrafts buzzed loudly as they careened through the skies. The people below whooped with each passing vessel, waving to their colleagues in flight. Hyperion nodded in approval with every completed circuit as another aircraft took to the air.

Fort Crown was located south of Courtmere. It was one of the Garrison forts that had remained under the control of the throne when Ancient had chosen neutrality, with Imperial being another. Damien’s Inner Circle had realized the dangers of too many _neutral_ regions during a civil war, and thus Ancient had only been granted a portion of the autonomy enjoyed by Coven and the Seas. Hyperion would argue that Damien should have exerted his will over all three, but the past was done.

Their partial autonomy made life easier for Hyperion. Sanguis and Briar’s forts were straightforward; both regions had been firmly crown loyalist. Stepes, too, after the Liberation had won them a majority of the sizeable region. The rest – especially Coven and the Annex – needed a few more years before Hyperion would be comfortable with his level of influence.

The Annex had shockingly proven itself a military power, and it had been a monstrously bold thing for Coven to simply _decide_ not to fight at all. Hyperion would do good to tour the western forts and begin the painstaking process of refashioning them.

Earth rumbled as an aircraft landed with a jerk. The ground was scuffed and marked from their movements. Those overseeing the aircrafts had chosen a spacious field to allow themselves the necessary space, a change that Hyperion was glad for. Construction was being done to link the field to the main base of Fort Crown. Hyperion would leave the paperwork to its overseers.

“Lovely machines,” said Major General Nicolette Thorne. She strolled aside Hyperion, indicating the landed vessels that they passed. “My flyers are experts at their craft. We’ve been working on these models for months now.”

An older vampiric woman, Nicolette wore a crisp Garrison uniform with the purple stripes of Ancient. The dark strands of her hair billowed with each passing aircraft.

Hyperion knew of the Thornes. They were a clan that held much of Ancient’s seaside coast. The head had even written Hyperion a few times, wanting to arrange a marriage between him and some lower Thorne. Hyperion had forgotten their name immediately after rejecting.

 _Mayhap Lilith_ , he thought, _or Laith if they were male_. _There are so many Liliths in this kingdom that it was doubtless one, and I’ve encountered girls named Selene of late. Surely a Quill or two would be running around in a few years’ time had he followed his predecessors’ examples._

“You’re confident that they will contribute well to the Garrison?” Hyperion asked. He placed his hand on a nearby aircraft, feeling the cool metal. “There have been talks of creating a new section of the crown’s forces dedicated solely to these. Just talks for now, but I’d need to select a general should they come to fruition.”

Nicolette nodded. “We’ve two main types, Lord Tydus. The New Dragons,” she pointed to one with an impressive wingspan, “and the Sky Snakes.” Her finger moved to a sleeker type. “The NDs are larger, stronger, can carry more load. The SSs are swift and nigh undetectable before the strike. Regiments dedicated to both shall be put to good use.”

Hyperion hummed in ascent. New methods of warfare had been discussed during the Post-Liberation cooldown. A campaign or two would see the Insurgents fully expelled from Stepes, leaving the Annex. The winter was always a sobering obstacle. Any assault on the Annex would have had to be concluded before the snows came. All the Insurgents need do should the crown arrive at an inopportune moment was sit and wait.

Aircrafts had been designed and manufactured to combat their terrain advantage. Flyers were trained to loose explosives on strategic locations, secure in the knowledge that there was little that could bring them down. It would skip the need for trenches or sieges and see the Annex crumbling. The most dangerous Insurgent leaders would then find themselves either dead or rotting in Frostgate, and the Annex would be slapped with more chains than Silas Wolff had seen in his last days.

 _Except you’re bound by ethics and honour once your opponent yields,_ Hyperion snorted. His hand traced the body of the New Dragon. _They say Celeste Caedis was born the day the last Eurydicean dragon died. Poetic. Maybe the death of the last snake will herald a new clan._

Hyperion’s inspection took him to a short row of aircrafts. Mechanics and flyers crawled around them, laughing and bantering. They stood at attention when he or the Major General were near, diligent but not as satisfactory to Hyperion as those in Fort Imperial.

A lad around Ares’ age dropped down from the wings of a vessel. He brushed dark hair out of brown-gold eyes and bristled at some comment from a vampiric man that spoke with a northern Sanguin inflection. Hyperion drew closer at the familiar accent, though he did not know the speaker or the boy.

“-in the day,” Hyperion heard, “when you lot weren’t everywhere like rats. A halfie or two, aye, ‘tis to be expected. Some folks will breed with anyone. Garrison was good and pure, too, before the Master made all these _changes_.”

_What’s all this?_

“It appears there are issues with my decision-making,” Hyperion said, keeping his tone light but with an underlying warning. “I’d like to hear them. Let it be said that I’m open to criticism.”

The boy - Hyperion saw that he was a werewolf-commonfolk hybrid - bowed deeply. The other man choked and shook his head, saluting the Major General and bowing to Hyperion.

“My lord,” the man said, “I’ve no issues. I’m a transfer from Fort Wyvern, sent down to man the airships. I only meant that the Ancienti weather did not agree with me. Too hot, too bright.”

“I see,” Hyperion said. Fort Wyvern was in Sanguis, bordering the intersection of north and central. “It took me months to adapt to Ancient when I first became Master of Defence. You are from northern Sanguis, correct?” The man nodded. “As am I. What is your name?”

The man stood taller. “Private Vladimir Borodin,” he said, giving a tentative smile.

Hyperion returned it. “Private Borodin seeks cooler climes,” he drawled. “Perhaps another transfer will do him good. Thorne,” she turned sharply, “there are a number of forts in the Frozen Waste. Their overseers have asked for more hands. They’ll be glad for a new addition.”

“No doubt, Lord Tydus,” Thorne said. “Such a post will agree better with him.”

She bowed and strutted away, tossing a ‘come’ over her shoulders. The hybrid boy had been sullen throughout the exchange, but he perked up as Nicolette led a sputtering Vladimir away.

“And you are?” Hyperion asked.

“Dadian Caulfield,” he responded, gaze averted.

“State your case, private.”

“I’m no private, my lord.” If possible, Dadian Caulfield grew even more tense. “I’m not in the Garrison just yet. I’m still a trainee. I, uh,” he scuffed the earth, “got sent here. Captain said there were too many recruits in the Ironhill, and I’d be more useful with the aircrafts. It was that or the Military Police.” He swallowed. “Not that there’s anything wrong with the MP.”

“Relax, Caulfield. I’m not going to bite your head off.” Hyperion studied the aircraft that Dadian had been fiddling with. “How about it, then? Do you have what it takes to be a flier?”

“I-I think so.”

“You _think_ so? Why were you on the aircraft if you only _thought_ you could fly it?”

Dadian flushed. “I’m a better mechanic than a flyer. This,” he tapped the aircraft, “was a Sky Snake that didn’t pass clearance. I was working on it, adjusting the wings and stuff. Thought I could, maybe, I don’t know. Create a new subtype.”

Hyperion humoured him. “And what would you have called it?”

Dadian mumbled something that Hyperion had him repeat. “Lunaen Dream.”

“An interesting choice. Paying homage to your werewolf lineage?” Hyperion asked. Dadian’s eyes widened. “Hybrids are easy to spot if you know the signs.” 

“Please, don’t kick me out of the Garrison!” Dadian begged. “I’m only half-werewolf, you said it yourself. And I won’t desert or anything, I promise.”

“The exclusion laws against werewolves were overturned years ago,” Hyperion leaned on the aircraft, “by me. I’m the last person you should be beseeching. That being said,” he rose and resumed his inspection, “it won’t save you from your own failure. Should you prove competent, I expect to see many Lunaen Dreams flying in the years to come.”

Such words were what he left Dadian with. Hyperion walked on his way, pondering. Hybrids were not uncommon, but their reception varied across the kingdom. Northern Sanguis’ aristocracy prided itself on blood purity. This was in contrast to those in central and southern Sanguis, as well as the notoriously hybrid-friendly Briarean vampires.

Hyperion had once shared the north’s belief. Again, his thoughts turned to bright red hair and eyes that were a darker blue than they should have been. Fear grasping him every time those sapphires stared too deeply at an open flame, or a little hand reached out for the hearth. Whispers of _he’s not one of us._ Lenora’s final secret laid bare, and Enoch Tydus’ cold stare at the child she had false claimed his son before dying.

 _Would that you could say the same,_ Enoch taunted, smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spotlight: Grand Seer Rodrigo I 
> 
> “Weep, for another comes,” were the last words of the Tyrant of the Rose. After such a proclamation, the Council of the Seer took lengths to ensure that no Sovereign would follow Rosemont. A theocracy was set in place until Grand Seer Jenny IX ended their ‘reign’. But before that, there was Rodrigo. A common mage, Rodrigo Carabello grew bored of the non-aristocratic life. After failing to marry into nobility, Rodrigo set his eyes on the clericy. He moved to Southedge and became a cleric, quickly garnering the admiration and respect of the downtrodden during Gideon Rosemont's reign. He eventually made his way to Courtmere for a Quinquennium, where he amassed many votes and found himself seated comfortably amongst the Council. A charming man, Rodrigo made many friends both amongst the nobility and in the Council itself. Rodrigo was one of the biggest champions for the removal of the Rosemont Clan, and shadowy sources suggest that he planted the idea into the head of Grand Seer Nero. The same sources claim that Nero was his puppet once the theocracy was established. Rodrigo eventually became the third Grand Seer of the Ambition Era. 
> 
> He promptly moved himself and his favourites out of Courtmere and into the Redfyre Palace. Now seated on the throne, Rodrigo assumed the title of Grand Sovereign. He issued a total colonization of Orpheus, recognizing Rosemont's Annex as the seventh region (though he forbid the werewolves from returning to their old lands or even choosing the name of the new region). Werewolves that wished to move west were forced to undergo assimilation programs, and even those in the Annex saw a fair amount of cultural meddling. Fearful of a dragon-rider rebellion after the massacre of the Bloodworths, Sovereign Gideon had put a price on the heads and pelts of dragons. Rodrigo doubled it. Those great beasts - numbers already dwindled from previous wars - would not recover. Rodrigo's bolder detractors would take to calling him the “Grand Pretender”. A lowly cleric of that time writes that, on the day Rodrigo recognized himself as a paragon of the Echolysian Faith (despite still being alive), the Grand Sovereign was heard to say "the lower your cunning, the higher you will rise in this world." Whatever the case, Rodrigo is recognized as one of the great figures of Eurydicean history.


	43. The Crown Always Wins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After all this time?  
>  _Always._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Orphean history can be summarized as: bloodmages rule the continent. Vampires show up and ruin their empire. Mages try to become the new dominant race but vampires beat them to it. Mages spend 1000+ years being salty. 
> 
> CONTENT WARNING: death (non-violent)

Ayden Caedis  
The Ironhill, 1 Cardinal

***

_The realm is a chessboard, the kingdom is a game, and the crown always wins._

Damien had said that to Ayden before he’d prepared to breach Stepes. The Insurgent ranks had been scattered after the Garrison successfully cut down their numbers at the climax of the Eastern Assault, and Damien had had no intention of losing the army’s newfound vigor. The Siege of Tyrant’s March was meant to mark a new phase of the war, one where the Insurgents would lose the vice-like grip they’d secured over nearly half the continent. The rebel forces would be forced west along the same trail their ancestors had followed centuries ago, and the folly of a war would end once the Caedises laid claim to the Annex.

Sovereigns came and went, but the Red Throne remained. Damien had died, but Ayden had finished the game that he’d started. He’d won the war. _The crown always wins._

The sound of Ayden’s footsteps rang out on the floors as he paced. _The realm is a chessboard; the kingdom is a game. The crown must always win, and pawns must be sacrificed to save crucial pieces._

Ayden reminded himself of his newest victory over and over. The feeling was unlike what it was during the earlier days of his reign, when he’d seen Insurgents flee from his hosts and their banners aflame as they fell from landmarks and outposts. It burned in his lungs, seared his veins, and the taste of blood was heavy on his tongue. Ayden did not relish in it.

He envisioned the evidence of his victory as he lingered in the bowels of the Hill of Iron, soothing the thrashing in his chest. Quill, standing in his chambers the day he’d risen from his state of unconsciousness. Free of the necklace’s clutches and the magic-induced sleep that was used to heal his wounds. Quill’s hair had been damp and tussled, his olive skin flushed and shining under the robe he’d worn.

Quill had been awake. _Alive._

Ayden had held him and breathed in his scent. He’d felt Quill’s heartbeat - slow and deep, quickening rapidly - and Ayden would have wept in relief if not for all the healers present. He’d kept Quill in his arms instead, listening to the rhythm of his heart. That quiet rhythm held such a fragile kingdom together - held its fragile ruler together.

_A pawn is nothing to a queen._

“Is everything prepared, Seraphina?” Ayden asked, keeping his voice impartial.

Doctor Seraphina Lebrecht glanced up from a table laden with bottles and medical accoutrements. White gloves glowed an eerie green in the lighting as she held one in her hands. Her blonde hair was pinned into a bun that contrasted the loose style she oft favoured.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Seraphina nodded.

Aside her, Reyna crossed her arms and gazed at Julius Wolff’s supine form. Curiosity radiated from her countenance, but she kept her thoughts to herself. Ayden was glad for Reyna’s presence. It was selfish, he knew, but there was something about having others to share the tightly-controlled information regarding Quill’s health that made him feel less burdened.

Julius Wolff had survived his tenure under Thorfinn. The Chieftain had suspected that the Philosopher’s Stone’s involvement had played a part. That was all well and good, but it meant that Ayden was in an uncomfortable position. Seraphina, a doctor more in Reyna’s service than the crown’s, had taken over his care until Ayden concluded that it would not be necessary.

He did not know how much Julius remembered, but Ayden was not giving him the chance to reveal crown secrets should he be dispatched from the Redfyre Palace.

Ayden was displeased with the addition of another person that knew of the blood magic he’d invited into the kingdom. Still, Reyna had vouched for Seraphina. If nothing else, it removed the darker aspects of Quill’s treatment from Tucker’s hands. Tucker was a staunch man, one that Ayden knew would adhere to honor and established procedure, and the risk of him feeling a moral obligation to inform the realm of malpractice was greater than Ayden was willing to take.

“You are certain that it will be quick?” Ayden held the vial mixed for Julius. He swirled it around, studying the shimmer of the silvery liquid within. Purple wisps broke through silver whenever Ayden reversed the direction.

“It will take a few minutes at most, and there will seldom be pain.”

“Good.”

Ayden been there when Thorfinn began overriding the emerald’s desire to obey its shadowy master. He’d watched the titan prod Julius with various items, clenching his jaws at the dark rivers of blood that had flowed in response. Containers had slowly filled with blood, the air thick with the scent of its freshness. Julius’ whimpers had not deterred Ayden, used to the mess of spilled blood and the cacophony of pain as he was. Any hunger Ayden may have felt was paradoxically quelled by the sight of the blood and the way it bent to Thorfinn’s will.

_I did it for Quill._

Seeing Quill’s limp body convulse when the Philosopher’s Stone was deactivated and replaced with blood magic had been too much for him. Ayden was glad for Thorfinn’s departure. 

Julius, for his part, had been neutralized with some concoction that Thorfinn had brewed before beginning the process. Seraphina clutched that same concoction now. Essence of poppy, sparse alcohol, moonpotion. A new addition. 

_Nightshade._ Ayden exhaled. _Consuming the species that grows in Sanguis is said to be like falling asleep. Surely I can spare Julius this comfort._

“What will you tell the courts?” Reyna asked, tracking Ayden as he paced. “I conjured up an excuse to postpone his trial, but they will be wanting a reason for an outright cancellation.”

Ayden hesitated. He’d had little need to interfere with Silas’ trial, but Julius’ was a special case. The man was a loose end that was too dangerous to be left untied. Ayden and all who knew of the price they’d paid to remove Apollo’s necklace were endangered the longer he was left alive. Ayden was loath to leave Julius’ fate to chance.

 _This is scarcely bending the law,_ a part of him whispered. _It lays broken at your feet._

 _I’ve broken it before,_ Ayden responded. _What difference is once more? You remove the threat whenever your king is in check. I am removing a threat._

“Julius Wolff took his own life,” Ayden said, tone neutral, “underneath the Hill of Iron. Nothing could be done to resuscitate him. He escaped justice for his crimes.”

Reyna hummed. “Very well.”

Exhaustion seeped into Ayden’s muscles. He’d felt a similar way, too, whenever Apollo’s gaze had found Quill amongst Lesser Ironhill’s crowd. Smashing the mage against Arion’s earthen wall had been some consolation, but this … Ayden did not know how to feel about this.

“So, am I now allowed to die?” Julius rasped. His words were thin as paper. It complemented how gaunt and pallid he’d grown underground, so far from the moon’s light.

“Yes.” Ayden stopped beside Julius’ cot, tracing the scar on the inside of his palm. He lowered his voice. “I am sorry that it shall happen this way. I meant to follow protocol. It’s just…” _Quill was dying, and you were not._

“I see.”

Julius’ eyes flicked to Reyna. Bleary yellow irises focused on ice-blue. Ayden had seen him repeat that action a number of times since he’d summoned Reyna and Seraphina to Julius’ cell. Wariness radiated from the werewolf each time Reyna drew near. It was puzzling.

“Do you love your children?” Julius asked, eyes finding Ayden’s.

“That hardly needs an answer. Of course.”

“And I mine.” Julius struggled to rise, but he was weak. “Let me send a message to my daughter, if you are truly sorry. Sakura. I want … I want to tell her that her father misses her very much, and that he is proud of the woman that she will grow to be.” Sweat beaded his brows at the exertion. “I want to tell her that I am sorry that I could not have been better. And that, once Remus calls me to his realm, I will build a palace for her. There will be a garden with cherry blossoms. And the other ones, too. What were they called?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know.”

Julius continued anyway, lost as he was from the medicines he’d already been given. “The white flowers that she loved. You know them, I’m sure you do. They were Selene’s flowers.”

Ayden’s breath hitched. “White poppies.”

“Yes, _yes._ ” Julius relaxed, smiling. “White poppies. How Sakura wanted them. Ah, my sweet daughter. Where is a man to find poppies in the Annex?”

Ayden regarded the man before him. During the war, Ayden’s hosts had oft cut through Julius’ like fangs through sanguinem. He’d been thrilled as a boy - what else could he call himself at that age? - to defeat a more seasoned commander at every turn. It was not until he himself was older and the valor of combat had worn off that Ayden had understood his tactics.

Whereas Silas had favored aggression and overwhelming strength in his prime, Julius had championed the opposite. He’d frequently left large parts of his own host behind to defend civilians living under Insurgent rule. Villages, towns, even smaller cities enjoyed some measure of protection while Julius’ weakened banners were crushed underneath the crown’s. It was a kindhearted decision, but one that was not well-suited for the War Era.

_Kindness does not win wars._

“Seraphina,” Ayden said, “fetch me a pen and paper.”

“No.” Julius’ eyes found Reyna again. “Send _her._ ”

Ayden agreed after a hesitation. Reyna frowned and did as she was bid, cocking her head at Julius in confusion. Ayden glanced between the two of them, equally perplexed by Julius’ aversion towards her. If anything, he and Seraphina were the larger threats.

Reyna returned soon enough with the requested items. Ayden awarded Julius the time he needed to write his message to Sakura, ignoring his mounting impatience. He would permit a single letter out of a doomed desire to absolve himself, but no more. The other Wolff children were out of the question, as well as Julius’ wife.

“Sakura shall receive this letter,” Ayden said, scanning over the shaky scrawl to ensure that its contents were acceptable and no cipher had been written, “in due course. Of that you have my word. However, she cannot keep it. It shall be burned after she has read it.”

“I suspected as much.” The pen rolled from Julius’ hands. “Give me the vial that you keep clutching. I know what is to happen next. Let me rest.”

Ayden motioned for Seraphina to oblige. She uncapped the vial and reached for a glass of dark wine to mix it with, but Julius stopped her. ‘ _I’ve lost my taste for wine_ ’ were his words, and Ayden did not question him.

Julius tipped his head back as he downed the liquid. He wrinkled his nose at the taste - Ayden imagined it was none too pleasant without anything to sweeten it - and laid his head down on his cot. It took nary a minute for his eyes to flutter shut, and the tension in his posture abated. His chest rose and fell, its depth decreasing with each cycle.

Ayden folded the letter for Sakura as Julius drifted, entrusting the rest to Reyna and Seraphina. He caressed the neat paper, wondering if he should have allowed Julius to write to the rest of his children.

 _What would_ I _do, if I had to choose between Lucien and Esme?_ Ayden shook his head. _Corresponding with Sakura is dangerous enough. This is the safest course._ He pocketed the letter. _I’ll need someone I trust to deliver this and ensure that it is destroyed afterwards. Someone who knows about all of this dreadful business. Reyna, ideally, but she is preoccupied._

Ayden spared one final glance at Julius. _Not Lyra. She was only involved because Quill’s life was tied to her magic before Thorfinn took over, and I can hardly say I trust her. Arion, perhaps._ He blinked. _No, not Arion. Hyperion. He mentioned a Garrison tour before he set out for Courtmere. He will be going to the Annex soon, anyway._

“I met her, you know. Selene.”

The sentence was spoken so softly that Ayden would have missed it if he was even one step farther away. He stiffened and turned slowly, puzzled.

Julius’ lips pressed together in a wan smile. “Truly, I did. A woman most curious, with flowers in her hair. She stared at Remus’ Lights with such awe that even I was inspired to take another look at them.” Julius’ voice faded. “She wanted me to overthrow my father - end the war myself. Selene even said that she could help. I sent her on her way. A pity I didn’t listen.”

Silence filled the cell as Ayden processed this revelation.

“Wait,” he hissed. “ _Wait.”_ Ayden grabbed Julius, all previous thoughts forgotten. “Wake up. _Julius, please._ You need to tell me more.” _What happened afterwards? Where was this? When? How soon before her death?_ “Wake up. _Wake up!”_

Julius did not wake.

Despair crawled through Ayden’s blood. He shook him vigorously, chanting ‘ _wake up’_ with such desperation that one would think him in prayer. He was. Regret mounted as he begged Echolyse to have altered Seraphina’s precision in such a way that the nightshade was not enough to kill a man. Or perhaps Julius’ countenance was stronger than Ayden had assumed, and he’d survive this as he’d survived Thorfinn.

_Wake up. Wake up. Wake up._

“He’s gone, Ayden,” Reyna said. She rested a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Release him.”

Bile rose in Ayden’s throat. He released Julius in defeat, stepping back. His legs felt heavy. Unanswered questions swirled through his mind, made worse by Julius’ final message. Ayden swore a satisfied smirk lay atop Julius lips, but the man appeared as one would while sleeping.

_The realm is a chessboard, the kingdom is a game, and the crown always wins. Julius became a threat to the crown the moment I offered him up to Thorfinn, and now the threat is no more. Quill is healed, the last traces of blood magic are gone, and Eurydice is none the wiser._

Ayden had tasted victory, and he hated it.

***

_“...near thirty years since Her Grace, Potentate Lilith von Drake’s passing…”_

Ayden’s hold on his glass of bourbon tightened at the radio broadcast. News of Julius Wolff’s death had been announced to the kingdom not long ago, and the stations and newspaper companies had lapped up the sudden development with ease. Ayden had tuned into every major station and flipped through any publications until he was assured that Eurydice had eaten what the crown had fed it.

_“…been informed that Julius Wolff, son of the former Annexian Governor Silas Wolff, has taken his life before his trial. He shall be posthumously charged with…”_

Ayden sighed and brought the glass to his lips. The urge to drink himself into a stupor rose, but Ayden sent it on its way. His brief imprisonment in Serpentspire after spiralling during the War Era’s post-Liberation period had cleansed him of the habit, but there were still some days when Ayden wondered if it would truly hurt to have one glass more. Then another, and another, until everything stopped being _everything_ and the realm was just a dull consideration.

“What a beast of a kingdom you are, Eurydice,” Ayden sighed. “A beast of a man to rule a beast of a kingdom. How fitting.”

The call of the crypt nudged at him, but Ayden ignored it as well. He’d been beneath the palace too much of late. With the way his thoughts had been going since Julius’ death, Ayden was unsure if he would be able to stomach seeing Gideon Rosemont’s statue. A wall of rope had been laid around his carving as Ayden honoured Quill’s request to remove it, but the Tyrant would remain until Ayden was no longer beleaguered and could commission stonemasons.

 _You rotten man,_ a voice that sounded like Selene’s laughed. _Must you work so hard? Have the head of the palace’s staff handle it. You are no artist. I doubt you’d know the difference between a statue carved by the greatest hands of the Stone Era or one made by me with mud I dug up from the lake._

“I miss you,” Ayden whispered.

Selene did not respond.

Ayden sighed and dropped his alcohol on a table. He pushed the doors of his chambers open and plodded out onto the balcony attached to his wing. The Ironhill stretched out before him, bright in the daytime. Vehicles and horse-drawn carriages sped past on the streets, and the Fair Serpent was murky without the darkness to hide it. A steamboat bobbed along the lazy waves, passing underneath the nearest bridge. It was quieter in the heart of the Iron City than it would be past the Iron Wall, but not silent. Never silent.

_I met her, you know. Selene._

Ayden leaned against the railing and cradled his head in his hands. Gods, why could Julius not have mentioned that earlier? Was this a punishment for what he’d endured curtesy of Ayden?

_A woman most curious, with flowers in her hair._

Ayden had received word of Selene’s death from a healer that lived in Wildland. The person had described her appearance and mannerisms well, and for that Ayden was not so inclined to write them off as a fraud. They’d clearly risked the ire of Silas Wolff by treating her instead of immediately turning her over to the nearest soldiers. The Gray Waste's course had acted much swifter than normal, the healer had written. They did all that they could with the limited resources availed to them.

Any of Ayden’s suspicions related to the missive sent by a series of couriers had vanished when he’d opened their package. Dawn and Dusk had been returned - cleaned, scoured, scorched to prevent the spread of infection across the kingdom - as well as a lock of silver hair and shrivelled white flowers. Ayden had shown the flowers to Persephone, asking what they were.

 _“White poppies,”_ Persephone had said, tears running down her cheeks. _“For peace. Selene asked me to use earth magic to preserve the types from my garden, but I swear to you that I did not know of her true intentions.”_

“I wanted to bring you home, Selene,” Ayden said, his words flying away in the wind. “During the Liberation. The Annex is not fit a grave for one so warm _._ If I could only reach the west … I could find your bones and lay them to rest where you would be happy. Sangtown, perhaps, or Briargarden."

_But not the Ironhill. You never loved the Ironhill, though it loved you. Loves you._

Stories, whispered on the blackest of nights between mischievous children, claimed that there were ghosts of all who’d died in the palace. _Searching for the lives that they’d lived and lost_. If such stories were true, then the palace was surely crowded. And yet the ghosts Ayden wished to see would be nowhere amongst them. 

_Will Julius stalk the halls, too, aside Jayne of Viernau?_ Ayden wondered. _Would Quill, in place of Julius?_ He listened to the _lap, lap, lap_ of the Fair Serpent’s waters. _The palace has no need of ghosts when we carry so many inside ourselves._

He was tired. Ayden retreated to his bedroom, shutting the door and drawing the curtains, before pulling the thick blankets over himself. He slept. Ayden slept, and he dreamt. He dreamt of white flowers and snow, and sometimes black flowers and fire. Ghosts and blood; shades of purple and silver; the Red Throne blazing green. Often, Ayden dreamt of nothing at all.

When he woke, the sun was crawling down to the towering high-rises. The sky was a mosaic of colourful hues. Ayden forced himself to leave the coolness of his bed - _had he so easily forgotten what it was like to sleep alone?_ \- and dressed for what was left of the day.

Servants bowed or curtsied as Ayden passed. Ayden nodded to them, letting his legs carry him wherever they wished.

Where they wished was a hall lined with portraits. Ayden perused them with little interest. Long-deceased members of the royal families adorned the walls - _ghosts, now_ \- and their faces were hard and stern. He sat on a bench in an introspective quietness, only pulled out of his thoughts when a booming voice reverberated about the hall.

“Your Majesty, you look like shit.”

A smile fought its way onto Ayden’s face. “The outside matches the inside, Your Highness.”

Prince Liam Caedis laughed heartily, his whole body moving with the sound. It was pleasant enough to chase away the strange places Ayden’s mind had been visiting of late. Liam was dressed for travel, suggesting he’d arrived quite recently.

“What brings you here, uncle?” Ayden asked. He pried himself from the bench.

“Can an uncle not visit his nephew?” Liam scuffed up Ayden’s hair as he was wont to do in Ayden’s boyhood. “Must I have a reason? Mayhap I wanted to grace the Red Throne with my rump. It’s been years since I last sat on the damn thing. I wished to have the golden spikes poke new holes in my ass.”

Ayden exhaled. It was a jest, but Liam’s words still stung. The last time Liam sat the throne was due to Ayden’s own actions, when the brutal pace he’d set through Stepes had left the army crippled and Arion in such a severe state of magic exhaustion that he’d taken temporary leave of his Suzerain duties. Ayden, for his part, had been in no better shape after his return.

“Feel free to take the throne,” Ayden said, using dryness to mask the bitterness. “It has lost its charm after so many years cooking over the flames.”

Liam laughed again. They traded japes back and forth in this way. The ghosts faded from Ayden’s mind, replaced by the warmth of family.

His uncle had been a great fighter and decorated Garrison man in his prime, tall as any Caedis and wrought thick with muscle. Liam had wanted to be the one to besiege Tyrant’s March, Ayden recalled, although Damien had believed that the soldiers’ morale would be better improved with a Sovereign and not a prince. It proved to be a mistake, and Ayden shamefully wondered if it was not wholly due to their titles.

Sovereign though Damien may be, Liam was the more personable of the brothers. Guilt seeped into Ayden anew when he thought of all the times a younger him would visit Serpentspire and seek Liam out before Damien.

_Would that Liam been born a few years earlier._

“You asked why I was in the capital,” Liam said, resting his hands in his pockets. “Truth be told, I don’t plan on staying long. Donna wants to travel south to the black sand beaches, and I won’t say no to a vacation. She and our grandchildren are heading there directly, but I took a detour to the Ironhill.”

Princess Belladonna Drachenberg was Ayden’s aunt by marriage: the wife of Liam, and the Lady of Serpentspire. Ayden liked her well enough - she was half von Drake herself, though from a branch separate from his mother’s. His cousins and their children were pleasant whenever Ayden returned to the Caedis’ ancestral castle.

“Why not travel together?” Ayden asked.

Liam shrugged, his eyes growing distant. “This is around the time that your mother died,” he said simply. “I thought to honour her in the crypt. And,” he beckoned for Ayden to follow him, “I found some of her old belongings collecting dust while I was having Serpentspire cleaned.”

He led Ayden towards the section of the palace that was designed for royal guests. There he retrieved a travelling case from the top of a stack, dusting it off with a careful reverence. Once satisfied, Liam opened the case and shifted such that Ayden could inspect its contents.

Various items were stacked within. A number of letters in a femininely cursive hand, bound together with a thin twine. An assortment of jewels, glistening in the light. A brown book, a round object wrapped in paper, a music box with red embellishments.

“Never liked the crypt much,” Liam was saying. “I preferred a sword in my hand as a boy, fighting with the other children up on the surface.” He seated himself on a nearby chair. “You look like your mother, you do, and one would think Lilith made you herself if not for your eyes. Those are all Damien. That, and your fondness for the decrepit museum beneath the palace.” 

Ayden lifted the box and began turning a lever on the side. A miniature woman rose from within, spinning with an arm outstretched. She wore a crown with tiny rubies embedded on its surface, along with a deep red dress that trailed behind her like blood. The red-clad woman spun round and round, matching the slow, sad tune of the song that played. Ayden blinked in surprise when he recognized a short strain of the melody. It was the tune that sometimes overtook his mind. The song stopped with an abrupt screech.

“Ah, Lilith’s old music box,” Liam said, cringing. “She dropped it one day, and it was never quite the same. It was a pain to listen to past a certain point. I think you can guess where.”

Ayden nodded. “I can find someone to fix it.” _I want to hear the rest of the song._

“Mayhap Esme will want it afterwards.”

 _Lucien, more like_ , Ayden thought, setting the box down. He next moved towards the book, flipping it open and pausing at the photographs attached to the pages. _I see where I get it from._ Ayden glanced through them, recognizing people here and there, but he stopped when he reached one with him and another toddler. The boy’s skin was darker, the ears and tail making his race unmistakeable. _A werewolf?_

“Who is this?” Ayden asked, showing Liam.

Liam frowned. “Daron Wolfrose’s son. Your playmate before that bastard killed your mother.”

“Where is his family now, do you know?”

“Fled the kingdom if they knew what was good for them. The Wolfroses were not noble, and they were _werew-_ ,” Liam stalled, “from Stepes of all regions. The fact that the Grand Seer had recommended _Daron_ as a Suzerain candidate was unorthodox. Lilith had been all for a commoner in the Inner Circle, but Damien never got on with him. Perhaps the gods were warning him of the ruin Wolfrose would bring.” 

Ayden continued his perusal of the photographs, occasionally asking Liam for more information. Liam explained where he could, pointing out the people and speculating as to why Lilith would have wished to keep their memory close.

There was one with Lilith, Damien, and Liam. The brothers stood on either side of Lilith, so different yet so alike. Both tall and proud, though Damien was lither to contrast Liam’s bulk. Red eyes they both had, yet Damien had inherited the rarer Caedis trait of golden hair from Princess Celeste, their mother. Another was of the same three people, but Hawthorne Lazarus and Fiona Sylph had joined them. Ayden stared at Fiona, finding it strange to see her so young. He smiled at the _very_ familiar irritation on her face.

A new woman was there, too. One with dark hair and pale eyes.

“The six of us were a group of sorts,” Liam reminisced, looking over Ayden’s shoulder. “Me, Lilith, Damien, Hawthorne, Fiona, and Lenora. We even spent a summer together at the Riverfort. One day Hawthorne took us to the castle’s Bat Tower, smiled sweetly, and told us to throw rocks as far as we could. We soon found out why it was called the Bat Tower.”

Ayden hummed, bidding he continue. 

“And once,” Liam grinned gleefully, “I jested that Hawthorne should wed Fiona and we’d all have a triple wedding. Fiona stated that she’d sooner marry a tree, and Hawthorne said it was a good thing that he was named for one. Fiona punished him by setting his hair ablaze with fire magic. The whole thing had to be shorn off. Hawthorne refused to speak to her for a fortnight. Southern vampires are so _sensitive_ about their silver hair.”

Ayden smiled at the fondness in Liam. It sounded so similar to his old life in Briar, carefree with Selene, Arion, and later Selene’s maid-in-waiting Persephone. His mind drifted towards Lucien and Corvus Livingstone, and the price they'd have to pay for their predecessors' failings. In a perfect world, Lucien would have had a hand in choosing who he'd wed. 

_But this is not a perfect world, and he is cursed to be the Sovereign's firstborn._

“Are you able to foster a few strays?" Ayden asked. "I’m thinking of sending the twins to Redmouth, if you are not too busy governing.”

“I’d love to have them.” Liam smirked, fangs flashing. “I’ll bet a thousand crowns that you are offloading them on someone so you don’t have to deal with the terrible teenage years.”

Ayden matched him. “Love you, uncle.” 

“Gods, you’re as annoying now as when you were a babe.”

They kept on like this, and Ayden soon grew lost in the photographs on his mother. She was beautiful. Cascading black hair, bright eyes of a striking violet. Lilith von Drake’s vibrancy was in opposition to the melancholy that Ayden knew Damien had been prone to exhibiting. She looked livelier here than in her royal portraits. Whenever Ayden saw her official paintings, however, she appeared … sad.

_I wish I remembered you._

“Uncle,” Ayden said quietly, “can you tell me more about your childhood? About … her?” He pointed to Lilith.

Liam obliged after a pause. He spoke of everything and nothing, skirting around her end. Lilith loved Port Levans, loved travelling. Could never stay still; was forever looking outward, wanting to see what the world had to offer. She’d secretly planned a trip across the Eastern Channel soon after the mess of the Mage Uprisings had been tidied up. The elder Caedises had given her a right good chastising for entertaining the notion of travelling overseas with the Crown Prince, still nothing more than a babe in swaddling clothes. Lilith had talked her way out of their ire, for there was not a wound that she could not mend.

_And her death caused one of the largest wounds in the kingdom._

“She loved bloodberries,” Liam sighed. “Especially the ones from Briar. My nose was buried in a book on Sanguis’ climates - I was trying to see if they could be grown near Redmouth - when I learnt of her engagement to Damien.” He frowned. “Serpentspire would have made her happier than the Redfyre Palace ever did. A flower cannot bloom underneath cloudy skies.”

Ayden bit his lip, thinking back to an old conversation with Fiona. “I heard Lenora Tydus was to be Potentate. Why the switch?”

For a moment, he thought that Liam meant to evade the question as Fiona had. Liam seemed to deliberate with himself, finally sighing and reclining in his seat.

“Aye,” Liam said, “Damien’s heart belonged to Lenora before it ever fell into Lilith’s hands.” The last part was mumbled with fierceness. “You’d forget Lenora if she wasn’t speaking, but Damien was captivated by her. The two of them fit together much better, anyway. Both were fond of spouting philosophy and poetry. Yet it was Grandmother Jocelyn’s dying wish to see Lilith crowned. She bid Damien dissolve his engagement to Lenora and wed Lilith instead.

“Damien argued with our grandmother frequently after that. He even offered to take Lenora on as a Potentate Consort, so that she would not have to undertake the political duties of a true Potentate. Grandmother was having none of that. Damien was in a tizzy for weeks. He whined so much that Fiona and Hawthorne’s ears must have fallen off.” Liam’s visage darkened. “He was wise enough not to complain about wedding Lilith in my presence.”

“What became of Lenora?”

“She married another man. Enoch. A pale imitation of Damien. I see the type of men that struck her fancy.” Liam huffed. “Our group couldn’t establish our dynamic after that. We tried, to be sure. Hawthorne ofttimes journeyed north to the capital, and Lilith invited Lenora to court as a lady-in-waiting alongside Fiona. It just … wasn’t the same. Lenora eventually left court, and Lilith’s trips around the continent grew longer.”

Ayden gazed at a photograph of Lilith, imagining the violet of her irises. “Why?”

Liam was silent. He rose and took the book from Ayden, laying it firmly in the travelling case. He closed it and patted the leather surface, his customary smile in place.

“Your Majesty,” Liam boomed, “where are you hiding His Grace? Keeping your spouse concealed is the mark of a poor husband.” He chuckled. “How I wish my mother could have met your Potentates. She’d have adored Selene. Grandmother would have fawned over her, too.”

Ayden rose, placated. “And Quill?”

“Aye, my mother would have appreciated his docility.” _Quill is far from docile._ “As for grandmother, well,” Liam's smile grew strained. “She was a product of her time.”

 _Sovereign Jocelyn would not have liked Quill_. Ayden pieced together what Liam left unsaid, and he immediately suspected why. “Times change.”

“That they do, even when we don’t want them to.” Liam slapped his belly. “It’s been years since either of us saw a battlefield. Do you still know the hilt of a sword from its blade?”

“About as well as you know the end of your fork.”

Liam guffawed. Ayden basked in the brightness of his uncle. _You are what a Sovereign should be,_ he thought, beaming. _Hale and hearty, jovial and warm. Not burdened by dark secrets. Now let’s hope that you don’t ask to inspect Eclipse._

\---

Sweat beaded Ayden’s brow as he crossed swords with the sword-fighting instructor he’d hired for the twins. They were meant to serve as a stand-in while they mastered the basics of training blades, as Ayden was completely unwillingly to bring _him_ in until they were cleared for live steel. Still, it would not hurt to use the instructor for his own practice.

Ayden countered a blow, using his greater build to unbalance the stalemate. He knocked his opponent towards the ground, offering them a hand once he’d caught his breath. The scar on his palm sent out sporadic waves of pain. Ayden grit his teeth and endured them whenever they radiated along his fingertips.

A few rounds of sparring were all Ayden was up to for the day. He dismissed the instructor and sat in the shade of a decorative tree, wrapping a binding around his hand to ease the twitching in his palm. There were some things that even magic would not heal, and the sporadic spasms were one of them. _It was foolish for Apollo to use a broken conduit,_ Ayden chided, _but it was thrice as foolish for you to grab onto it._

Ayden’s hair blew backwards at a sudden rush of wind. He raised his hands, protecting his face, and blinked the dryness out of his eyes. Arion grinned at him, one hand on his waist and the other forming a small cloud.

“Attacking a man while he’s down, Arion?” Ayden said once he’d identified the newcomer. “That’s low, even for you.”

“As if you could ever stay down. Vampires are hard to kill.” 

_Not all of us._ Ayden stretched out languidly, listening to the crackle of his bones and the scream of his muscles. Legionnaire glinted black in the light as it rested at his side.

“You missed the spar. I should have told you to join me three hours in advance,” Ayden teased.

Arion scoffed. “Briareans are late. We operate on a different time. It’s our way; our culture.”

“That explains why you were late to the war.”

“Someone had to feed the kingdom when the crown lost Stepes.” Arion dispelled the cloud. “At least Briar arrived eventually. I can’t say the same for _some_ regions.”

Ayden chuckled as Arion joined him beneath the tree. He shifted to give him space, setting Legionnaire in a less precarious location. Arion pulled out a cannister of candied fruit once he was seated, munching on them eagerly. He grumbled when Ayden helped himself to a handful. 

“Would it kill you to eat a vegetable one of these days?” Ayden asked, sucking on the sweet.

“It’s not easy to power two affinities,” Arion countered. “This is the fastest way. Magic is a curse.”

 _Truly._ “Perhaps you should work on your hand-to-hand combat. Give yourself an extra tool so you’re not as reliant on your magic. Gods know you’re useless with a sword as it is.”

“As appealing as getting my ass beat sounds, I’ll have to decline.”

Ayden capitulated. He studied Arion out of the corner of his eye, searching for signs of weakness that he knew he would not find. It had been years since the Liberation, and Arion had recovered from the hell he’d endured under Ayden’s command. Ayden had felt little aside from rage and despair as he’d torn through the Insurgent ranks, the dull need to breach the Annex the only companion in his head. Watching Arion fall from the sky, surrounded by enemies on all sides as his magic failed, had put the fear back into Ayden’s blood.

“Does that still hurt?” Arion asked, pointing at the binding on Ayden’s hand.

“Occasionally. It makes using Legionnaire awkward if I don't hold it in a certain way, but it feels unnatural to swap the position of my hands.” He leaned back, observing the sky from the broken foliage of the tree. “Selene had the right of it when she chose dual swords. I-”

Ayden interrupted himself when he sighted Arion’s footwear. The garish design took him completely by surprise. It was unlike anything he’d seen before. He pointed at Arion’s feet.

“Arion,” Ayden drawled. “what are those?”

Said man wiggled his exposed toes. “Do you like them? I bought these from a foreign merchant in Stepes when blondie and I oversaw the Insurgent surrender. There was only one pair, unfortunately, so I could not get one for you.”

“You were supposed to be securing alliances, not expanding your wardrobe.”

“Why can’t I do both? I’m nothing if not efficient.”

Ayden huffed incredulously. “This has to be one of your worst purchases.”

Arion wrinkled his nose. “Really? _This?_ I’m losing my touch.”

“Why are you like this? It’s almost as bad as the time you asked if Persephone could tie you up with her vines. Dear gods, I had to leave the room after that.”

“I only meant that I wanted to fight her while restrained,” Arion sputtered, “to compare our styles of earth magic. Her discipline is nature-based and mine is more suited for combat.”

“It sounded like you wanted her to manhandle you.”

“Mayhap.” A smile slowly spread its way across Arion’s face, and his honey-brown eyes sparkled in the dappled sunlight. “On the subject of Persephone-”

“Yes, I know. She is gorgeous and lovely, and even the hells of the five faiths would be brightened by her presence. Persephone is the Nymphs of flowers and trees and roots made mortal.”

Arion glared at him, but it softened in an instant. “That, and more. She’s with child.” He grinned at Ayden’s double-take. “Six or so months along. I meant to tell you earlier, but,” Arion shrugged, “you had more pressing concerns.”

Ayden stood, excitement coursing through him. He clapped Arion on the back and pulled him into a fierce embrace. Arion returned it in a heartbeat, his ears twitching happily.

“This is wonderful news,” Ayden congratulated. “Lazuli will do well with a sibling to chase after her, and I know you are happiest with a babe in your arms.”

Arion nodded. “Of course,” he said, “I plan to be in Briarlight when the child is born. It would be good to just … go home again.” Ayden’s heart clenched at the longing in his voice. “You should consider searching for another Suzerain. I won’t be much available once I leave.”

Ayden deflated. “I didn’t even think of that.”

“Cheer up,” Arion patted his cheek. “I’m stuck here until you return from Stepes.”

“I scarcely wanted to journey there, and now I don’t even want to come back.”

Arion laughed. He crossed his arms, his eyes growing unusually dark.

Ayden knew that look. He waited for Arion to organize the thoughts in his head, dreading the words that his friend was carefully selecting.

“Mother is getting old,” Arion said, quiet. “She’s served the realm all her life, but I think it’s time she took leave of her office. I know she’ll fuss at that idea, but it is true nonetheless. A new Master of Finance may be in order.” Arion frowned. “Sometimes she’ll … forget. Nothing drastic. It’s usually been her wondering where she put a ledger or a pen, or failing to recall a bannerman’s name. I’d hardly notice it in a person our age, but…”

Ayden rested a hand on his shoulder. “I understand,” he said gently.

Arion held his gaze, nodding gratefully. Ayden made to lighten the mood.

“It will be strange having you and Lady Fiona absent from the palace.” _First Selene, and now Arion and Lady Fiona will no longer be a stone’s throw away._

Ayden thrashed internally at the prospect. The period immediately after the Liberation came to him, and Ayden swallowed the lump in his throat. He’d been alone then, too, consumed by guilt and darkness. Days had passed by in a blur that was only broken when he’d overheard Lucien struggling to play both parts of a song meant for two people.

“You’re always welcome in Briarlight, Ayden. It was your home, too, and it’s been a while since the twins went out east. I’m sure they’d enjoy the chance to refresh their memory.” Arion crossed his legs. “Quill might like it as well. Briarlight is more than large enough to host all of us should you descend from your grand palace.”

_Don’t remind me of the life we once lived._

“It can’t be helped,” Ayden spoke with false bravado. “You know, Arion,” he forced a grin, fangs glinting mischievously, “I used to be quite taken with you when we were younger. That time you grew your hair out … ah, I was smitten.”

Arion’s face contorted in shock. “You fucker!” he pointed at Ayden in betrayal. “Is that why you didn’t speak to me for the entire season? I thought you hated me for laughing when you spilled your paint during the Day of the Gods.”

“Not hate. Simply the racing heart of a teenage boy.” Ayden sheathed Legionnaire and walked away with a pep in his step. “None of that matters now that you’re old and wrinkly.”

“ _Old and wri_ \- you’re older than me! Come back here, Ayden!”

Ayden’s mirth was cut short when his feet left the ground, and he gasped at the gust of air beneath him. Cold water enveloped him the next instant. It was all Ayden could do not to laugh and accidentally inhale the water from the shallow garden lake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spotlight: Grand Seer Lucretia XIII
> 
> One of the youngest Grand Seers in Eurydicean history, Lucretia succeeded Rodrigo during the Ambition Era. A mage-commonfolk hybrid sired on a Dadian prostitute, Lucretia was given to the Faith as a girl and raised in the ways of Echolyse. Rodrigo took her under his wing, personally mentoring her as she climbed through the ranks of the clerics. Lucretia upheld his desire to expand Eurydice, conquering the lands that remained on Orpheus after his death. She was temperamental, unforgiving, and given to flights of fancy. While the beginning of her “reign” as Grand Seer was relatively stable, Lucretia quickly became arrogant and dismissive of her Council. The Quinquennium meant little to her, and she openly employed her predecessor’s rumored habit of personally selecting members and removing them at will. Lucretia held the ambitions of Rodrigo but lacked his charm, prompting many of her Councilors to work behind her back to remove her from power. 
> 
> Lucretia was the prototype for the modern Masters of Intelligence, essentially serving as one for Rodrigo and later for herself. Her successors would often have someone fulfill a similar role in their Councils, before the Caedis family made it an office in its own right. It is widely believed that she was the illegitimate daughter of Rodrigo. In truth, her rapid promotion through the ranks of the Echolysian Faith was likely due to a combination of her own skills and the Grand Sovereign's desire for an “heir”.


	44. West of West

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherever the roads might lead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Julius has mastered the art of messing with vampires. I’ll miss him ✌️😔
> 
> CONTENT WARNING: Explicit

Quill Lycan  
Stepen Countryside, 1 Cardinal

***

“Look,” Quill said, pressing his face atop the glass. “Horses.”

A herd of wild horses ran some distance from the royal division of the Trans-Orphean Express, their hooves kicking up dirt. The grasslands they passed through were green in the fair summer weather, their beauty heightened by the clumped villages the train had bypassed.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Countess Roselle Leonhardt smiled. “Horses.”

Quill sheepishly returned to his seat in the common area. He’d taken to gazing out of the windows since they’d left the last station. Whenever something caught his interest, Quill would eagerly point it out. Lilith and Alois, even Ayden, had soon grown tired of this habit. Roselle, at least, was willing to entertain him.

He didn’t _mean_ to be so incessant. The Annex was a large region itself, but Stepes was larger.

 _Maps fail to show its immensity_. 

They were nearing Homestead, trekking along with the blue waters of the Minor River. Quill had run into Ayden after waking earlier that day, jokingly asking if Ayden had begun rising with the sun as well. The confused grimace on Ayden’s face as he realized he’d spent another night awake had been comical. The Sovereign was now in his quarters, dead to the world

Lilith and Alois exchanged words as they helped themselves to sanguinem, cheese, and a slew of blood-red meats. Roselle rested her tea on the table, offering her input whenever she found the conversation distasteful. The delicate conduit in her lap glowed, and a spoon stirred the contents of her cup. An attendant approached the coach periodically, making sure all was well.

Quill went back to the scenery. Crescent slept at his feet, content.

They passed by more open fields, with commonfolk tending to cattle. It was in stark contrast to the Ironhill and the dense cities along the Covenese border, what with their tightly-spaced buildings and streets flush with vehicles. Steppe-wolves, copper-skinned and dressed in rough-spun fabrics, could be seen from their settlements along the banks of the river.

Quill had engaged with a number of them whenever the Express stopped for an hour or so. They spoke in drawls, their dialects unique from those of the Annexian gray or dire-wolves. Quill had even heard _Wolfetongue_ thrown around from excited children as they chased each other near the platform. They’d presented dolls woven from grass before him, speaking Wolfetongue in a breathless rush, and Quill had happily accepted their gifts.

The braver ones had run fingers through Crescent’s thick fur as they stumbled between Wolfetongue and Eurydicean. Many of the Insurgent higher-ups had used the Lunaen language to confound crown loyalists in case of intercepted messages, he remembered. Quill had even practiced a few words with Ezra when the elder Lycan had began his military career, waiting for the years when _he’d_ be called to the war, but it was strange to hear it spoken as intended.

 _I ofttimes could not understand what they were saying,_ Quill had thought, as he’d waved goodbye to the steppe-wolves while wrangling Crescent back onto the train. _A cruel jape, Remus, to make a werewolf that does not speak the werewolf language._

The train had then slithered along Tyrant’s March before crossing the tail end of central Stepes’ Phoenix Desert. Quill knew that the lands east of the desert were filled with luscious farmlands. Their western counterparts were less fertile after sustaining much of the war, but Quill could see the parts where the earth was beginning to heal around the old trenches.

 _And west of west,_ Quill thought, imagining a wolf racing astride their train, _are thick forests, streams teeming with salmon, and moose bigger than vehicles. There are snow-capped mountains farther still, with clear blue springs at their bases. Horses are strapped to carriages by lords and stable boys alike, and the air is crisp and cool. West of west is home._

“More horses, Your Grace?” Roselle asked.

Quill blinked. He shifted his focus back to the courtiers, reminding himself to be a more gracious host. They’d been willing to travel on short notice, as Ayden had warned him of the dryness of their trip, and it would not do to be so reticent.

“Not horses this time, no,” Quill said. “What was the topic at hand?”

Lilith Thorne huffed. “I’ve never been one for long journeys,” she lamented. “I’d take the softness of a castle’s bed over horses and the open road. My cousin says that aircrafts might one day carry more than one person. They are fast, too. Even faster than trains.”

Roselle scoffed into her tea. “Such machines are strange. _New dragons_.” She took a scornful sip. “The _old_ dragons are gone for a reason. We scarcely need new ones.”

 _What are aircrafts?_ Quill wondered, nodding along.

“-perion Tydus in Courtmere,” Lilith was saying. She took on the dreaminess she was prone to displaying. “I chanced upon him once, you know, when I first had the servants rearrange my chambers in the palace. His hair is _so_ lovely. How it shines!” She frowned, playing with her own hair. “My handkerchief fell from my hands, but he did not pick it up.”

Alois Brandt hummed. “Perhaps he did not see.”

 _Knowing Hyperion, he definitely saw._ “Lord Tydus has been known to get lost in thought.”

Lilith fretted with her hair even more. “Yes, of course.” She flushed. “In truth, I dropped my handkerchief purposefully. It was a girlish thing to do, but I was hoping he would sweep it up and return it to me. He would have, truly, if he saw.” She threw herself on her seat dramatically, her skirts fluttering. “How is such a man unwed?”

Roselle patted her softly on the arm. “Mayhap he is searching for the right person.”

“Is he, Your Grace?” Lilith turned to Quill, worrying her lips with her fangs.

“I’ll ask him next time I see him,” Quill promised.

“ _Mayhap_ he loved and lost, and is afraid to love again.” Alois eagerly joined Lilith, imitating her wistful position. His dark brown hair rustled as he flopped over, having shed the need for courtly propriety. “He must be waiting for someone to rescue his heart.” 

_I see why I was watching the horses._ Quill distracted himself with a bite of cheese.

“The Brandts and Tyduses are quite close,” Alois continued. “I heard his mother died on the birthing bed. He doubtless fears such a fate in a wife. There’ll be no worries if he takes a husband.”

Lilith and Alois traded glares at that declaration. Roselle chided the both of them for such childish fantasies - gossiping about a member of the Inner Circle in front of _His Grace,_ no less - and bid them talk of matters more suitable for the presence of a royal.

 _One day with Hyperion will shatter these notions they have of him,_ Quill mused. _Lilith and Alois are my age, yet they think the world is some story in a book. I did, too, before my father sold me to a stranger and told me to swallow whatever cruelty he’d inflict on me._

That went without mentioning everything that followed.

Quill left them all to their bickering. A few months ago, and he would have hotly demanded Lilith and Alois pursue other romantic avenues. Now, however, he could not speak ill of Hyperion without applying such thoughts to himself.

 _Please,_ Apollo begged in Quill’s mind. _Have mercy, Your Grace. I did not know._

The dynamic between Quill and Hyperion had become so _civil_ that Arion had pulled him aside and questioned the change. Quill had laughed and denied ever clashing with Hyperion, inwardly cursing the shrewdness that Arion’s relaxation belied. No one had barged into his chambers with the emerald in hand and accusation in their eyes, but Quill still felt wary.

An early supper was served in the dining carriage, as Quill’s body had begun to feel heavy. He helped himself to beef stew with a generous serving of vegetables, dipping in a hot slice of bread to soak up the remains. The thought of any strong drink oddly repulsed him, and so Quill washed it down with a lightly-sweetened lemon water.

He drifted from carriage to carriage to settle his stomach, bidding the others a pleasant evening. Quill soon grew bored of his aimless wandering and retreated to his quarters, combing through his travelling case and leaving with a handful of books. He settled in a comfortable corner - legs tossed whichever way, body contorted - and perused _The Life of Dadia Stareyes._

It was slow-going work.

 _Sovereign Dadia Stareyes was a nomadic woman from a division of the Stepani Surona,_ it read, _a tribe whose range spanned the deserts and the grasslands. Her tribe was more amicable to strangers than most, and it was not uncommon to find members amidst the inns, shops, and taverns of the sedentary. In the middle Iron Era, the reigning Bloodworth…_

Quill trudged along with unusual disinterest for a book related to Dadia Stareyes. He skimmed it instead, finding all the places in the dry academic reading that he remembered from _The Nomad and her Preachers._

A host of clerics had been sent out by the Grand Seer in search of ‘ _the one with stars in her eyes’._ Stories claimed that the clerics Jenny and Leonardo had met the Nomad by chance after stopping at a tavern popular with the Stepani Surona. Dadia had suffered an accident as a child that left her blind in one eye and impaired in the other, and her tribemates dubbed her ‘stareyes’ for the milky texture of her irises. The clerics had seen it as a sign from Echolyse, and so began Dadia’s road to the throne.

_And once Dadia was crowned, starlight shone brighter than dragon fire._

“Dadia’s story is more interesting with Leonardo and Jenny bickering all the while,” Quill said to himself. His jape was swallowed by the roar of the train.

Quill’s first read of _Nomad_ had been with boyish exuberance, and he’d pestered all in Beowulf Tower who would listen about the comedic adventures and moving victories. He’d then curled up beside the hearth on that cool summer afternoon and read it again, picking apart each detail. The mere thought of the book always brought him joy, and he’d reread it over the years for numerous reasons, but today was different.

Today, it made him sad.

 _How did Dadia feel, truly?_ Quill wondered. _Did she sit beneath the stars when her companions made camp, fearful of the Red Throne? A strange god with powerful followers that decided that_ she _was to rule?_ He stared blankly at the words on the page. _Dadia left her family behind and was alone in the Ironhill - then a young city but still no less vicious. A peasant from the empty lands out west; commonfolk; dirt to their eyes. It’s a wonder she did not go mad._

Quill closed the book and reached for another. He’d found it in the Palatial Library, and it had been too intriguing to overlook. It proved an easier read than _The Life of Dadia Stareyes._ He managed to work through a decent chunk of it when footsteps sounded behind him.

“Gods,” Ayden groaned, rubbing his hair. “Was I asleep that long?”

Quill moved from his awkward position, wincing at the stiffness in his legs. “This problem would be solved if you didn’t stay awake long into the night.”

Ayden wrinkled his nose at the suggestion. He closed the curtains and peered curiously at the books. Quill held up his current one when Ayden asked about it, earning an irate glare.

“It’s called _Anastasia,_ ” Quill grumbled. “ _Anastasia_ is meant to be Potentate Jayne Redwood. In the book,” he gestured towards the illustration of red hair, “she survives the Fall of the Tyrant and masquerades as a woman named Anastasia.”

“That’s a more heart-warming version of history,” Ayden said. He cocked his head. “Selene read that when she was with child.”

Quill paused. There was little he knew of Selene, and Ayden had only spoken of her with him when he’d asked about her in the wake of Pagonis’ play. Ayden’s fierce response had dissuaded him from further attempts.

“Did she like it?” Quill asked, hesitant.

“I would think so. She wanted Lucien to have that name.” Ayden chuckled at Quill’s confusion. “The doctors said that we were to have twins. Selene got it into her head that it was two girls, so we picked Anastasia and Esmerelda. Lucien disagreed with Selene’s prediction, and we instead tacked Anastasia onto Esme as one of her middle names. I’m sure she’d faint if I ever used her _full_ name.”

 _Anastasia_ felt heavy in his hands.

“Can you tell me more about Potentate Selene?” Quill inquired, noting Ayden’s reaction. “Eurydice has naught but good things to say about her, and,” _I want it to say good things about me,_ “it seems she knew the secret to being a good ruler.”

Ayden was quiet. He carded a thumb through the book nearest him - _The Life of Dadia Stareyes,_ as it was - and rested his free hand beneath his cheek. Quill bounced his leg as he waited for Ayden to either answer or tell him that it was none of his concern.

“You sound like me an embarrassing number of years ago. Everyone has their strengths. There is no _secret_ ,” Ayden said. His fingers drummed on the table, one stroking his palm. “Selene was the fighter between us, the one better at inspiring the troops. She always said that,” Ayden’s voice rose, “ _a ruler is needed on the battlefield, and it should be me. The queen has more freedom than the king does on a chessboard._ ” He returned to his normal tones. “I know for a fact that she simply did not want to do paperwork. That was _my_ strength.”

 _What is_ my _strength?_ Quill smiled, unsatisfied. “I understand her logic.”

“You want to be the queen as well?” Ayden’s eyes sparkled mischievously. “All hail His Grace Quill Lycan, Queen of the Kingdom of Eurydice.”

“Shut up.”

“As you command, my queen.” Ayden had the gall to look amused.

Quill growled sourly at the nickname he’d been saddled with since meeting Astrid. He collected his books into a pile, making sure that Ayden could see now little he appreciated the title. He next attempted to read _Life_ again, giving up for the second time.

“Do you really not have a favourite Sovereign?” Quill asked, breaking the silence as Ayden’s eyelids grew heavy. “Surely there is one whose reign inspires you. You are not allowed to name yourself, either.”

Ayden levelled him with a flat look. “I don’t like myself enough for that.” He raised a hand as Quill’s eyebrows furrowed. “I know, I know. It’s a little sad. Be that as it may. I am a little sad a lot of the time.” He then sat back in his seat, contemplating. “Celeste is frowning upon me, but I’d have to say Lucien Beaumont. He was not a Sovereign, yet I much admire him.”

 _Lucien Beaumont? That is,_ Quill searched his memories, _Adrienne the Dragonblood’s consort. The one with the pretty dragon._ “Why him?”

Ayden shrugged. “Beaumont is oft mentioned in love stories and tales of the dragon war. Even so, he had many hidden accolades. Old Eurydice - when it was just Ancient, Sanguis, and Coven - did not function as a kingdom until Beaumont gained more power in court. The realm would have never been ‘ _one nation, unified_ ’ without him.”

Red eyes grew distant. “When _my_ Lucien was born, I had Sanguis and Briar. The Annex was in open rebellion,” Quill stilled, “and my father had lost Stepes entirely. Coven, the Seas, and Ancient were content to bury their heads in the sand. Going from two regions to seven seemed impossible.” Ayden clenched his fists. “I would strategize all night, thinking _‘if only I could get one more on the crown’s side._ ’ Even if the war outlasted me, _my_ son would have fewer regions to reclaim than I did. The idea of another Lucien unifying Eurydice was … nice.”

Quill was quiet as he digested Ayden’s response. In truth, he had expected Celeste the Great.

Ayden looked lost in thought. “How have you been faring with the twins?” he asked, staring at the table. “Remarriage is rarely easy for children, or the new spouse.”

Quill took the closest hand in his own, squeezing gently. “Esme has been friendlier. Lucien is…” he forced a smile. “Remarriage is rarely easy. I will fill whichever spaces he is willing to let me.”

Ayden’s smile was equally inauthentic. “He takes a while to warm up to people. He’ll get there. You just need an ice pick and,” he imitated the movement, “ _chip, chip._ ”

Quill stiffened when Ayden suddenly cupped his cheeks. His eyes widened, and for a moment he was back in Lunares. Viscardi and Luna were throwing barbs at each other as the attendants bemoaned the cantankerous siblings. Lorelei’s laughter rang out across the halls of Beowulf Tower, high and sweet. The clash of Ezra’s sword was like music in the yard, as was the swish of Celestina’s skirts when she took stock of the Tower’s provisions. _Relief_ that shined from his mother’s face when Theron had returned at the end of the Red Massacre, exhausted but alive.

Quill’s hands covered Ayden’s. His eyes briefly fluttered shut, and he leaned into the touch. Ayden’s hands were not the right shape as Celestina’s, were nowhere near as warm _,_ but _gods_ if the feeling did not make Quill weak.

“Why…?” The words stuck in Quill’s throat.

“I’ve done many things to protect the kingdom,” Ayden said lowly, tracing swirls across Quill’s cheek. “I’ve failed in more ways than I thought possible, and I will doubtless fail anew. But when I look at everyone important to me, my shortcomings do not seem so insurmountable.” Ayden retreated. “There is no secret to any of this, Quill. Just trial and error.” 

The carriage felt empty as Ayden exited. Quill caressed the spots on his face where he could still feel the ghost of his fingers. Pressure built inside him when he recalled golden eyes as they faded away, as Lunares faded away, as the Annex faded away.

_West of west is home._

Quill parted the curtains, searching for horses.

***

When Quill woke, it was to blood in his mouth.

Discomfort roiled through his bones, and his jaw ached. His fingers, toes, head, _everywhere_ was alight with pain. Worms seemed to crawl through his skin, digging to the surface. His tongue smarted where he had bitten it.

One glance outside of his window answered his frantic, unspoken question.

Quill blanched. _How could I forget?_

He’d kept track of his Transformations religiously, already out of place in the palace and not wanting to feel even more like an outsider, but he’d grown complacent. Quill knew he would Transform at least once while in Stepes, but he had not realized it would be so _soon._

_This is inconvenient._

Quill rapidly dug into his travelling cases, the action made difficult by his lengthening claws, and pulled out a bottle of moonpotion essence that Doctor Tucker had prepared for him. He ran to the bedside table where a jug of lemon water he’d requested sat, pouring a cup with shaking hands. The moonpotion essence made an odd _glug, swish_ as he vigorously shook it and added a generous amount. He downed the cup in three gulps and slammed it on the table, grimacing at the bitterness.

The portion had perhaps been _too_ generous. Still, better safe than sorry. Quill had been stressed of late, and the last thing he needed was to have an aggressive Transformation. The train was a poor place to contain an unstable werewolf.

Quill curled up into a ball as he waited for the bone-shifting to subside. He was careful about his teeth, placing a guard in his mouth to avoid biting his tongue again. Pin-pricks poked at the edge of his vision, signalling the blackening of his sclera. His senses were aflame.

He smothered himself with a pillow.

Crescent sniffed at him, batting Quill with her large paws. Quill pushed her away. She raised her rump in the air and wagged her tail, but Quill was not in the mood for games.

“Go away,” he mumbled through the mouth guard, dragging his aching legs to the door.

He tossed a plain object to encourage her, letting it sail into the darkness. Crescent bounded after it, and Quill made the gruelling journey to his bed so that he could wallow in peace.

A sigh of relief escaped once the pain subsided and the sharp edges began to dull. _Being_ Transformed was not a problem in and of itself, save residual unease, but the process was atrocious. Quill counted himself lucky - some werewolves were so disrupted by their change that they needed moonpotion _days_ in advance, rather than on the verge of the forceful shift. He’d also heard the women of the Tower complain of the times when their two cycles aligned.

 _Truly,_ Quill thought, disentangling himself from the pillow and pulling the shreds of fabric from his claws, _this could be worse. It could be better, no doubt, but it could be worse._

He removed the mouth guard once he was certain his tongue was no longer in danger. His teeth were larger and fiercer, hair and body thickened. His eyes glowed gold from their inky surroundings, the irises made thinner by the dilation of his pupils. Black canid ears twitched from a mass of hair.

Quill groaned and sat on the floor, scraping the wood with his claws. He reached for the lemon water, drinking straight from the jug. It had barely retained its original flavour while sitting on his nightstand so long, but Quill would be damned if he left his quarters in this state.

 _If I_ do _have to leave,_ Quill thought, grunting at a cramp in his belly, _I will need to make it fast. It is awkward being seen by non-werewolves during a full moon._

A knock sounded on his door. Quill’s ears flattened. “Whatever it is can wait over the morrow.”

Ayden’s response was cautious. “Are you alright? I heard a commotion.”

“I-I’m fine.” Quill cursed. _You don’t sound fine. Now Ayden is going to be twice as concerned._

Before Quill could offer more platitudes, Ayden let himself into the room. He stared at Quill dumbfoundedly, and Quill blinked back from his place on the floor. Ayden looked towards the open window. His brows creased as realization dawned on him.

“Oh,” Ayden said. “You were Transforming.”

“Yes.” Quill’s hair stuck to his forehead, and he resisted an innate urge to growl at Ayden.

 _Oh, come off it,_ he chided himself. _He’s already seen you like this._

Once Ayden had happened upon him in the gardens, Quill had become less inclined to barricade himself in the secrecy of his wing. There were precious few people he’d been comfortable being seen by in the capital, and Ayden’s acclimation to Quill’s Transformed state had been something they were still working on.

“Should I bring you anything?” Ayden shuffled awkwardly. “Do you like chocolate?”

“It’s fine,” Quill said. His muscles tightened. “No, it’s not. Can you fill this with hot water?”

Ayden took the robust bag after Quill had pulled it from his case, mindful of the curved claws during the exchange. Quill returned to his spot on the floor and awaited him, mixing more lemon-moonpotion water and sipping on it. It was not long until Ayden re-joined him, carrying the bag in one arm and a small box in the other.

Quill hugged the bag tightly, melting under its warmth. Ayden proudly revealed the contents of the box, and Quill gazed at the delicate array of sweets within. He ate one as a thank-you to Ayden, chuckling at how pleased his husband looked.

The chuckle morphed into a sharp exhale as the last stages of his Transformation set upon him. Quill shook his head when Ayden began fretting, drooping his ears to block out the extraneous distractions. He practically engulfed the bag with how strongly he held it, his claws tracing the grooves made from previous Transformations.

“I know a method,” Ayden said, handing Quill yet another piece of chocolate, “that can relieve pain in the muscles. Gods know I’ve felt it myself, though not quite the way you are feeling it. Come here, and I will show you.”

Quill did as requested, settling into Ayden’s arms. The loss of heat from the bag was remedied as he began massaging Quill, starting from the shoulders and working his way down to his belly. The muscles responded positively to the squeezes, and Quill grew languid. He bit his tongue - intentionally, this time - and tried to keep his noises to a minimum. 

One of Ayden’s hands scratched Quill’s ears as he took a break. The other rested atop Quill’s thigh, fingers absentmindedly scratching the skin. It was a domestic interaction, one that felt wonderful, but Quill’s blood was racing southwards.

“Ayden,” Quill said, neutral. “If you keep doing that, you are going to have to bed me.”

The stimulation subsided. Quill flushed in disappointment, but his ears perked up when it resumed a breath later.

“It cannot be helped,” Ayden drawled. His hand crawled from its innocuous position, stopping at Quill’s inner thigh. “Next you will tell me that you are in heat.”

“The jape was scarce funny the first time. You need new reading material.” Quill regarded Ayden with a challenge, stalling the hand that was beginning to disrobe him. “I wish to lead.”

Ayden looked at Quill expectantly. “Your wish is my command. Tell me what to do.”

 _I did not think that would work._ “As expected. I want to watch you undress.”

Quill swallowed as Ayden stood and unbuttoned his shirt - _still dressed for the day. Gods Ayden, what is the night for, if not sleeping?_ \- before letting the fabric drop with a quiet rustle. He moved onto his trousers, the muscles of his thighs flexing as he bent. Ayden stepped away from the pile of clothing, unabashed, and inclined his head.

“Did that satisfy you?” he asked, smirking.

“Almost.” Quill dug through a travelling case filled with personal items, procuring a lubricant. He motioned for Ayden to be seated. “Pleasure yourself,” he said, unscrewing the cap, “until I am ready. Do not forget what I mentioned about _silence._ ”

For a time, the only sounds in the cabin were Ayden’s quiet huffs, the squelch of the lubricant, and the rumble of the train. Quill’s heightened senses amplified everything, and his ears twitched in interest at each of Ayden’s noises. He readied his body methodically, using an aide as he could not place his clawed fingers inside himself, keeping his eyes on Ayden.

Ayden’s eyes were dark and shadowed as he watched Quill in turn. His fair skin turned pink, and Quill tingled when he noted that Ayden’s strokes were in tandem with his own. He slowed down to further tease him, toes curling at the quiet groan from his husband.

Quill eventually took pity on him, climbing into Ayden’s lap and rubbing him between his thighs. He wrapped a hand at the back of Ayden’s neck, pricking him _lightly_ \- Quill knew the pain of a werewolf’s claws first-hand, and he was not eager to inflict it on Ayden.

“Keep your hands to the side,” Quill said. “Only move when I have finished.”

Ayden’s throat bobbed as he obeyed. Quill stole his lips in a kiss - it was still _exhilarating_ to do so - and sank down onto him. The fullness was welcomed. His ears flattened, Ayden tracking the action, and Quill began to move in earnest.

The moonpotion may have dulled the more unpleasant effects of his Transformation, but _this_ was not within its realm of activity. Quill’s nipples hardened as he rutted against Ayden, his erection trapped between them. The hard lines of Ayden’s muscles were a boon to his senses.

“ _Fuck,”_ Quill whispered into Ayden’s ear. “Who would have thought that the Sovereign of Eurydice could be so obedient?”

Ayden hummed, enraptured. The sheets crumpled as he held them.

Quill had to _remind_ Ayden of his earlier command once or twice as he pushed him deeper and deeper. He gyrated as best as he could without support, periodically teasing the man beneath him for his pliancy. Quill took his pleasure lustily, smiling at the sheen of clear wetness he left on Ayden’s abdomen with each downward thrust. He threw his head back as he climaxed, tightening his walls in a final taunt.

“You did well,” Quill gasped, his body rocking with the aftershocks. “So good, all nice and-”

“My turn,” Ayden interjected. He seized Quill by the waist, keeping him impaled.

Quill’s processing was slow in his addled haze, but he sharpened when Ayden took his softening erection in hand. He jerked as Ayden began pumping him despite the sensitivity. Ayden did not relinquish his hold. Quill’s breath hitched as his body thrashed of its own accord.

“ _Ah, ah!”_ he moaned, overstimulated. “ _Ayden,_ I… _ngh_!”

“Hmm?” Ayden thrust upward, repeatedly striking the _spot_ within Quill.

He squirmed and squirmed, but Ayden did not let up. His ears rapidly responded to the sensations, spasming like madmen, and his mouth dropped open in a prolonged moan. Ayden’s grip limited his range of motion, and Quill had no choice but to futilely twist around on the man buried inside him. He whimpered when Ayden’s tongue brushed a nipple, shutting his eyes and throwing himself into the overwhelming pleasure.

Quill’s second climax coincided with Ayden’s first, and it had him shaking as warmth flooded his body. He inhaled a breath until his lungs were full. He released it as he flopped over, boneless. Ayden fell with him, and Quill ran his hands through the strands of his increasingly-longer hair.

“What were you saying earlier?” Ayden asked, playfully nipping Quill’s ear.

“That was underhanded,” Quill replied. “I told you not to-”

“-touch you until you finished. You did not tell me what to do after that, and so I improvised.”

Quill was too breathless to offer a proper rebuttal. He lay down as Ayden kissed him, starting from his lips then moving lower. Ayden followed the scars on his neck, kissing down their length, before continuing to Quill’s nipples. He rolled a brown nub between his teeth while lavishing attention on the other with his fingers, and Quill sighed in content.

“Give me a moment to rest,” Quill said, “and I will be ready again.”

“Three times? Your Grace, you are greedy.” Ayden caressed his cheek, and Quill leaned into it as he’d done earlier. “There is no rush. I enjoy this just as much.”

Heat pooled in Quill’s belly at the softness with which Ayden spoke. His focus was drawn to the door, however, from a flurry of scratches. Ayden noticed it a few seconds after Quill.

“Were you expecting someone?” he whispered.

“Yes,” Quill said, disentangling himself from Ayden and preserving his modesty with a sheet. “And she is very angry.”

He opened the door, whistling bashfully, but Crescent remained disgruntled all the same.

\---  
_Homestead_  
\---

It was their third day in Dadia’s Rest, and there would be a third feast to celebrate. If there was one thing Quill had learned about Stepens, it was that they needed few excuses for festivities.

Upon arriving at the capital of Stepes, the royal party had been greeted by the Lord and Lady of Dadia’s Rest, as well as the full complement of their staff. Melissa Skyreach was warm, curtsying deeply to Quill and Ayden as they’d exited the vehicles that had borne them since the Express.

 _A werewolf hybrid,_ Quill had thought, as he’d bowed in return.

Ramsay Skyreach was all smiles when he’d seen Ayden, welcoming him with like an old friend. He’d then turned to Quill with a smile that could only be described as strained, bowing with a clipped ‘ _Welcome, Your Grace.’_

Since then, it had been a blur of feasts and exploration.

It took nary a day for Ayden to sequester himself away with Ramsay and his people, discussing the challenges that Arion had oft detailed during Inner Circle meetings. Quill had joined them once or twice, but there was something about Ramsay that made him feel agitated. Ramsay had eventually suggested that Quill see what Homestead had to offer, and he had endured the slight.

 _You are not needed for proper politics,_ Ramsay seemed to say. _Your use is symbolic. Go, and let the_ real _leaders talk._

Ayden had not glanced away from the Skyreach bannerman he’d been speaking with, and so Quill went with a smile and a nod.

Lady Melissa, fortunately, was the most gracious of hosts.

She’d taken Quill to a market in the city where farmers sold their produce, and they’d dined on the rugged food of Stepes. Fish caught fresh from the Mellow Sea, lobsters dribbled in butter and garlic - Ayden had _hissed_ when Quill returned to the castle after eating that - with a hint of lime, and pies baked with fruits. Then Melissa had taken him to the beach along the Mellow Sea, and Quill had dipped his toes into the placid waters. He’d seen its southern sister when exploring Stonerose with Orion and Luna, but Quill was fascinated all the same.

 _In the Ironhill,_ Quill mused, leaning into the swaying motions of the open-top carriage as it meandered through the busy streets, _nobility mingling with commoners is oft frowned upon. Yet Homestead seems to expect it._ He closed his eyes as a breeze ruffled his hair, carrying the scent of horses and humans. _It’s nice._

“Here we are,” the driver said. The horses stopped with a lurch. “Your Grace, Lady Missy.”

They offered an arm to Melissa, aiding her in dismounting. Melissa’s handmaidens followed close behind them, clutching the gurgling Skyreach twins in their arms. Helios fussed and reached for his mother, while Diana blinked at all who passed. The faint gold of her eyes shone in the sun, as did the brown strands of her fluffy hair.

“Just as promised, Your Grace,” Melissa said. “Dadia Stareyes’ house.” She laughed breezily, covering her mouth with a hand. “It’s not where you’d think a Sovereign would end up, is it?”

“Not really, no,” Quill agreed. He brushed out his trousers and rolled up the sleeves of his thin shirt. “Still, it’s the type of outlandish decision Dadia would have made.”

The house before them was an unimpressive thing. Small, squat, distinctly Iron Eran in its construction. A small garden stretched out around it - pumpkins, squash, turnips. Smoke billowed from the chimney, and a rocking chair was perched beside the entry as if its sitter had risen for an afternoon stroll on the nonce.

Quill would have missed the house entirely, if not for the numerous signs and guards.

A guide ushered them inside, bowing. Quill flipped through the pamphlet he’d been given, reading about the aspects of Dadia Stareyes’ later years. The house was even more ordinary inside than out, reminiscent of the modest homes of the people that lived beneath Beowulf Tower. They discovered the source of the chimney smoke, and Quill fanned himself with the pamphlet to avoid sweating into his white shirt.

Quill studied the recreated scene of an old woman’s domestic life. It was a way he’d never pictured Dadia before. Her early days in the countryside were familiar to him, aye, as was her glory on the Red Throne. Now he imagined her at the end of her life.

_Baking pies while the reinstated Bloodworths squabbled over the kingdom that she’d fixed._

“The Skyreaches are descended from Dadia, you know,” Melissa said, collecting Helios from a nanny. “It was funny how Ramsay told me.” She wrapped her palm around Helios’ chubby fist as he pulled at her short wheat-brown hair. “I was an ordinary washerwoman, elbow-deep in soapy water with sweat on my brows. Then here came the Lord with tales of his royal blood.”

Quill pressed onwards. “Dadia never had any children,” he said, whispering so as not to disrupt the guide. “How can that be?”

“Dadia was a woman grown when she took the throne.” Diana squealed from the arms of her own nanny, reaching for Melissa. “Some say she had a child that stayed behind. Well, the Skyreaches base their origins on that claim.” Melissa balanced Helios on her hip and tickled Diana’s belly. “Mayhap Dadia thought that if Echolyse wanted her child to succeed her, then she would say so.”

“I suppose Echolyse wanted the Bloodworths in power once more,” Quill said. 

It was not long before they returned to the castle, and to another feast. Quill conversed with his courtiers as they dined at high tables. Crescent frolicked with the Skyreach hounds, and Quill was amused to see her send them tumbling to the floor with her great paws. He later retired for the night, tying up his complaints of idleness in a neat bundle.

The next day, Alois offered to accompany Quill in order to unburden Melissa. They saddled horses and set out at a brisk pace with an entourage composed of palace guards and Skyreach retainers. The morrow was much the same, though Quill began to push the boundaries of how far he rode from the castle.

Day six saw Quill riding so far west that their party was scarce in Homestead anymore. Alois tittered while Cerberus frowned, and Quill had to bite his tongue before he shouted that they were both free - _encouraged,_ even - to leave him to his own devices.

 _Can’t you see?_ Quill thought when Alois questioned his restlessness. _I am no use here, and the Annex is just past those mountains._

He kicked his horse into a gallop, chasing the purple-blue mountains. The wind whipped his hair against his face, but the mountains never grew closer. The forests never appeared. There were no townspeople tossing greetings as they went about their day. The river that he crossed was not even right - it was a tributary of the Minor River, not the familiar but nameless vessel that watered Lowton-below-Beowulf. 

“Your Grace,” Alois panted. His palfrey came to a stop aside Quill’s borrowed destrier, and he readjusted his stylish sunhat and black shades. “Must we go so fast?”

"I can have Cerberus escort you back,” Quill deflected. He spurred his horse onwards, breaking away from the guards. “I thought you’d be happier aside Lilith and Roselle in Dadia’s Rest. What possesses you to join me?”

“A Potentate should not travel alone.” Alois stubbornly refused to leave. “Besides, the Stepens are a coarse people. I sought peace and quiet.” Alois removed his sunhat and brushed his hair. “Highborn and the low should _not_ be seated together. Don’t get me started on the food. Could we not have vacationed elsewhere? The coastal cities are lovely this time of year.”

 _This isn’t a vacation._ Quill directed his horse towards the ruins of a holdfast. _At least, it shouldn’t be._

The holdfast soon vanished as Quill kept riding. He made a game of it, seeing how far he could go before someone caught up to him. Alois always managed it in the end, looking incredibly put-upon. It was a dance of _gallop, rest, gallop, rest,_ one that nearly ended with Quill’s horse trotting upon a werewolf boy.

 _He has not lost his tail yet,_ Quill blinked as he steadied his mount’s nerves. _He must be quite young. Where are his parents?_

“Watch where you are going!” Alois chided, glaring over the rim of his shades at the boy. “You nearly unseated him.”

The boy’s tail lashed in agitation, but he linked his hands behind his back. “’m sorry, m’lord,” he said, eyes downcast.

“ _He_ is not a lord. You’re speaking to the Po-”

“Let it alone, Alois,” Quill said. “I was going too fast, in any case.” He vaulted off his horse and approached the wheelbarrow the boy had been pushing prior to their narrowly avoided collision. “It is a simple matter to fix. Here, let me.”

Quill rectified the wheelbarrow with ease and returned the spilled objects to its depths. He reached for the final item, a box with a broken seal, and frowned.

“Remus,” Quill cursed. “This must have broken when the barrow fell.” He turned to the boy. “I remember passing a village. Surely someone there can fix it.”

“No,” the boy said, holding his hands out. “It’s not broken, honest. Can I have it back?”

Quill fiddled with the locking mechanism. “It’s no trouble. I can-”

Black and red fabric caught his eye. Quill would have thought nothing of it, had it not been for the familiar flash of white at the centre.

 _Could it be?_ Quill set the box on the dirt road and pulled out the fabric. The boy began protesting in earnest, but by then it was too late. Quill gaped at the design with unease.

“Why do you have an Insurgent banner?” he asked, his hands balling into fists. _Do you not know how dangerous this is to have? Especially with the leader of the crown loyalists so close?_

The boy tore off without another word. Alois’ palfrey reared in surprise at the sudden movement, and the vampire’s hat went flying. He caught it before it could sail away in the wind, hurling choice words at the child’s retreating figure.

Quill rolled the banner up as tight as he could, feverishly checking his surroundings in case the guards had caught up. “Help me dispose of this.” 

“What is it?” Alois’s voice faded as he spied the distinctive white wolf. “Is that an _Insurgent_ standard? Those were outlawed. Are there Insurgents here?!”

“Yes. No. I don’t know.” Quill unsheathed his claws and started shredding the thick material. “Not so loud, Alois.”

“We ought to hunt down that boy, Your Grace.” Alois nodded to himself. “ _Insurgents!_ Really? His Majesty shall flush out every last paltry village once he finds out about this. Line them up and see who dares question the crown’s authority.”

_That is precisely why he won’t find out._

“These Insurgents don’t know when to give up, do they?” Alois continued. “Do they need a reminder of who won the war? Mayhap another Victory at the Mellow Sea is in order to put them in their place.”

Quill stiffened, a long strip of the banner still clinging to his claws.

“ _I_ was an Insurgent,” he snarled, “or have you forgotten?” Alois startled, and Quill guiltily reigned in his anger. “That boy is a child. He likely has no clues as to the banner’s meaning. We can set it aside, move on, and no one will be hurt.”

 _Cerberus will turn a blind eye if I command it._ Hooves thundered, and Quill’s heightened senses deduced that the guards were drawing closer. _I hold no sway over the Skyreach men._

Alois eventually nodded, tight-lipped. He slid off his horse and gingerly held the banner such that Quill could tear it with greater ease. They gathered armfuls of the ribbons and tossed them into the sluggish tributary at varying locations. Quill watched them sink or float away, his heart in his throat at the bobbing lines of red and black and white.

“Is this treason?” Alois asked, low and shaky. He cradled his dirtied hands and stared at Quill with wide eyes. “Should we not tell the Sovereign about the banner?”

“ _No_ ,” Quill responded. He cleaned his claws in the river, keeping his face straight and tone level. “Come, let us return to the guards. I’ve likely driven them mad, as only Cerberus is accustomed to my proclivities.”

Alois could not have mounted his palfrey faster.

Quill set a much softer pace, constantly checking the state of his companion. His eyes drifted towards the river many times, too, fearful of flashes of colour aside from blue. The waters faded as they moved farther away. They reunited with their entourage by the holdfast.

Quill smiled at the displeasure on their faces, but did not offer any explanations.

“Your Grace,” Cerberus sighed, unenthused about the countryside. “It is unwise to venture into unknown terrain by yourself.”

“I wasn’t alone,” Quill said. “I had my horse, Alois, _and_ his horse.”

They travelled along the more structured paths - the Skyreach guards redirected them onto the Gold Road, avoiding the beaten trails that Quill had been favouring - and Quill fell in step pliantly. Alois became less jittery when they passed through one of the many clumped villages.

An order was sent out by the Skyreach captain, and their procession briefly camped in the village so as to rest the horses. _‘We’ve drained them with all this galloping,’_ the captain had said. ‘ _There’s an inn up ahead where we can water them.’_

The innkeeper was summoned, and they bid their workers fill the troughs with fresh water once the captain identified their party.

Quill perched on an adjoining fence as his destrier drank its fill, admiring the village. It was small and quaint, with the rustic charm he’d come to associate with Stepes. Commonfolk and werewolves alike bustled around, selling their wares in large trolleys. Their accents were a mix of drawls and brogues, but all were spoken with merriment. Other travellers lined up behind their procession, chatting amicably with each other as they tended to their own horses.

“There aren’t many vehicles,” Quill said absentmindedly to a serving girl. “Save the odd one here and there. The Ironhill had at least ten every which way I turned.”

“Aye,” a serving girl replied. “Used to be that there was tanks and all sorts of them. It was horrible, my ma tells me. I only saw the tanks myself when they left.” She pointed yonder. “Marched west on the Gold like big, metal cows.”

“I suppose that was my father’s doing.”

The girl shrugged, pouring Quill a cup of milk. “Scuffed up everything when they left, they did. We’ve got to repair the roads again, what with the war done and Frontier open.”

 _Frontier?_ Quill drank the sweet milk, licking his lips.

“Stop bothering the Potentate,” the innkeeper snapped. The girl jumped, spilling a few drops of milk on her apron. “Another carriage has pulled in. Go tend to it.”

The girl curtsied to Quill and scampered away. Quill remained on the fence and watched her as she spoke to the spoke to the driver of a covered carriage. She directed the man - _do I know him?_ \- towards the inn as her colleagues reigned in the dusty horses.

A woman poked her head out from the tarp and dismounted, brushing her the skirts of her blue dress. Quill’s attention slipped from her when he heard the Skyreach captain calling for their return to Dadia’s Rest. He abandoned the fence and moved to comply, stopping when the woman turned at the captain’s shouts.

Olive skin shined under the Stepen sun, and her black hair was windswept. On closer inspection, Quill could see the wisps of silver embroidered into her blue dress. Her hands were dainty as she worked her hair into a braid.

Quill’s eyes widened, and his heart skipped a beat. When he spoke, the words were barely above a whisper. Doubtless no one had heard it underneath the neighs and hooves of horses or the _creak_ of wheels on earth.

He spoke again, louder. The sounds of the village vanished when she turned around. Quill’s cup fell from his hands, and his voice wavered when he repeated her name.

“Lorelei.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spotlight: Dadia Stareyes
> 
> When the ruling Bloodworth Sovereign died without clear heirs during the Iron Era, the Grand Seer announced that “the one with stars in her eyes” would lead the kingdom. A lowborn commonfolk woman named Dadia "Stareyes" was found in the grasslands of Stepes, then little more than disconnected lands that were frequently raided. After being convinced by two Echolysian clerics, Dadia went to the Ironhill to assume the throne. The beginning of her reign was a hard one, as many of the people did not want to submit to a foreign, non-vampiric ruler of common birth. The nobles in court scoffed at her lowborn status, particularly the Rosemonts that had been eying the throne for years. It did not help that Dadia was headstrong, loudmouthed, and suspicious of the aristocracy. Her outspoken nature and strong ideas won her the support of the commoners. Dadia made several reforms to the kingdom, and she is credited with removing the male-based primogeniture put in place by Sovereign Grigori Bloodworth after he took the throne his mother had intended for his sister. 
> 
> In addition, Dadia unified Stepes and convinced it to join Eurydice peacefully. She later softened the strict Echolysian laws regarding worship, allowing for more religious freedom. Dadia permitted women to become Grand Seer, a decision that was initially challenged but eventually accepted. Cleric Jenny, one of her 'preachers', became the first female Grand Seer. Dadia was skilled at diplomacy, though she never wed. After the longest reign in Eurydicean history, Dadia did the unthinkable by retiring . She settled in an area that would become Homestead, building a small house to live out the rest of her days. The castle Dadia's Rest is named in her honor. 
> 
> She did not initially have house words or a coat of arms. Dadia would eventually create her own 'clan' due to societal pressure, though she never had a Potentate. Her clan words were “From the Stars We Came, to the Stars We Rise”.


	45. Black Roses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Redemption lies plainly in truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My ideal relationship dynamic is morally-questionable war criminal and their arguably-treasonous partner.
> 
> CONTENT WARNING: references to (past) dub/noncon involving drugs, alcohol, and gaslighting. Also (on-screen) drug use

Orion Livingstone  
Stonerose, 1 Cardinal

***

“Why do you have runes?” Orion asked

Dante paused with a mass of fairymoss inches from his mouth. The silver piercing on his tongue glinted as a rolled paper rested a hair’s breadth from his mouth. One eyebrow raised, the diagonal slit reminding Orion that _he_ needed to retrim his own.

“What?” Dante responded.

Orion indicated the lines of black and red on Dante’s exposed chest. Their _interesting_ shared sexual encounter had revealed them - Orion had taken note of the runes when Axle had impishly demanded that they pleasure each other. They looked nice on Dante’s skin, but were no better than ordinary tattoos.

“You have runes,” Orion repeated. He motioned for Dante to continue, generating a small flame. “I thought you couldn’t use magic.”

“I can’t.”

“Then why do you have them? It’s not like they’re doing anything for you.” 

“Why would a person like children even though they’re infertile?” Dante held the paper over Orion’s flame. “Fucking hell, Governor.”

Orion flushed at the reprimand. He billowed the flame - smirking when Dante jerked backwards - and tossed the windows open with his ‘movement’ rune. Orion breathed in the air of the Southern Sea, sighing when the wind ruffled his hair.

His bedchambers had scarcely changed from his youth, and Orion swallowed down the shot of nostalgia he felt. There had been changes made in the last year, as he’d been spending more time in Living Stone of late, but they were minor at best. If Orion ignored them, he could almost pretend that he was a boy again, and that Cesare would come through the ornate doors with sea-salt in his hair and a laugh on his lips.

“Have you ever tried getting your magic fixed?” Orion stole the fairymoss from Dante, inhaling deeply. The resultant smoke was in deep shades of red and purple.

Dante growled. “Magic either works or it doesn’t. Mine doesn’t.”

“Yes, but-”

“Leave it alone, Governor. You don’t _fix_ magic.”

Orion lounged in a chair, his arms resting behind his head and the fairymoss dangling from his mouth. Mages prided themselves on their alchemy, and magical society favoured those whose abilities were superior. The concept of a mage dissociated from their magic was … odd. 

“So,” Orion relinquished the fairymoss, “were you born without magic? Or did you lose it?”

“I told you to leave it alone.”

“Humour me. Don’t make me _order_ you to tell me. I’ll do it, you know. I _am_ the Governor of Coven.” _Until Lyra comes back._

Dante glared without heat. “I was born without it. My father used to _remind_ me that magicless elves were built that way, but magicless mages were broken and no better than commonfolk.”

“Axle will throw a wrench if she hears you saying that.”

Orion gazed past Dante, pouring magic into his incomplete rune. A small object - a jewellery box - reacted to his intent, travelling along a vanity’s wooden surface in short bursts. _Shake, vanish, pop, reappear._ Orion smirked as the rune had finally began to behave, though he wasn’t confident enough to use it on larger items. The jewellery box would have to do for now.

“Axle isn’t a mage,” Dante shrugged. “She can see all of this _alchemy_ and feel nothing because magic was never meant for her. I, on the other hand…” He trailed off.

Orion nullified his magic, and the box phased to its proper state. He noted the longing in Dante’s eyes, having seen the expression whenever he did magic in his friend’s presence. It made him look younger; more fragile. Familiar green eyes flashed through Orion’s mind - wide and full of hope at first, before becoming glossy and _hurt_ \- and he pushed away the dull throng of guilt he felt whenever he thought of Corvus.

“If I didn’t look so much like my father,” Dante was saying, staring at the paper as it shortened from its lit end, “then that fucker would have accused my mother of adultery and washed his hands of me. It didn’t help that I liked to kiss boys.” He sneered. “That, amongst other things.”

Orion seized the fairymoss before it could expire, sucking down the last of it. The smoke he managed to puff out was an ordinary gray. There was no use trying for further colours. He tossed the nub out of the window - dousing it with a ‘water’ rune - and searched for another.

 _I’m out? Damn. Mayhap Dante brought some. Otherwise,_ he stared at the bustle of Stonerose below the mountain, _I’ll have to find someone who sells it in the less-travelled parts of the city._

 _No._ Orion shook his head. _Lyra will be here any day now. Best wait until she leaves. That goes without mention my new lady love._ The last words left an acidic taste in his mouth.

“What’s wrong with your father, anyway?” Orion threw himself on the chaise. “Threatening a man for liking other men is an odd sentiment.” He smirked playfully, ignoring the memory of Dante’s arms wrapped around his body. “Was he raised outside of Eurydice?”

Dante’s hands bunched into fists. “He’s a magical purist,” he said guardedly.

Orion had heard of magical purists. They were a consequence of the subtle hierarchy of Coven’s - even Ancient’s, to a lesser degree - magical society.

Back in Orion’s days as at Cleric Rodrigo’s Academy, a number of his peripheral friends had quoted the ideologies they’d doubtless learned from their parents. Alchemically-inclined mages above all others, even vampires. Marrying within the race, to avoid the magical breakdown that came with prolonged hybridization. Only engaging in relations that would produce magical offspring.

Orion had oft disregarded the notions and their speakers, more concerned about flirting with girls and sneaking illicit sips of alcohol.

“Oh.” Orion’s smile disappeared.

Dante’s tone was dry. “Echolyse must have burst a tit laughing when she made me his son.”

 _No more so than when she made a Silversong get lost at sea_.

“You know,” Orion said, approaching Dante. An idea had struck him. “Mag- alchemists can channel magic through most things, provided they have a rune engraved on them. Perhaps I can use _you_ as a conduit.”

Dante blinked at him. “Conduits are _designed_ to accept magic.”

“So are humans.” Orion held his hand out, filtering through the runes along Dante’s chest and arms for one that would not be a hassle. “Let me try.”

It took several heartbeats before Dante gave a curt nod. Orion touched Dante’s bicep lightly, feeling the muscle tense up. He selected Dante’s ‘light’ rune and directed his intent towards it, willing his magic to obey. Orion imagined a beam of light appearing in Dante’s palm, his brows creasing in concentration.

Dante’s rune did not react. The sensation was akin to hitting a wall.

Orion stubbornly pushed more magic into the rune.

He was hitting a wall, yes, but a hollow one. He flooded copious amounts of magic into Dante’s body. Triumph flashed through Orion when the rune sporadically glowed. It was weak, barely enough to be considered functional, but it was _working._ Orion’s reserves weren’t exceptionally high - Lyra and Corvus were the ones with monstrous power - but he was still a Livingstone that had been raised atop a Philosopher’s Stone. Moulding magic was as easy to him as brea-

“ _Stop_ ,” Dante hissed, shoving him away. His rune sputtered before fading to black.

Orion readjusted his hair, disoriented at the sudden attack. “It was working, Dante!” _So, this is how Isabelle feels about magic._ “I only needed a bit more power, and it might have-”

“It wouldn’t have done anything. I’m a broken mage.” Dante traced the rune, unnerved. “Does magic always feel like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re drowning.”

“No.” Orion hesitated. “At least, it’s not supposed to.”

The flesh around the rune had turned red; the sound of Dante scratching it irritated Orion. He chilled his hand using an ‘ice’ rune, placing it over the pebbling skin. Dante protested, stopping only when Orion assumed the coolness began to soothe him.

“Cheer up,” Orion squeezed the comfort from between his teeth. “Some solution will be made. I’ve got friends in the Arcane that keep up with all of those developments.”

Dante hummed, leaning into the ice. Orion rubbed Dante’s arm, the earthy-sweet scent of fairymoss hanging between them. He noticed many of his features from their proximity: the way his brown hair shone copper in the sun, the depths of his eyes; the sharp cut of his jaw.

 _He’s pretty._ Orion eyes sank to Dante’s lips. _In the right light._ He sidled closer, wondering how Dante would react if he kissed him. _The fairymoss is getting to my head. But,_ Dante did not retreat, inkling his head in question, _Dante won’t mind, right?_

“What are you doing?” Dante asked.

“Kissing you?” Orion stopped, his ‘ice’ rune long since deactivated.

“Why?”

Orion flushed, feeling half a maiden again, fumbling and stammering as he tried to explain his wandering desires. He stood up bashfully and cleared his throat. Neither pleasure nor displeasure shone on Dante’s face, and Orion was unsure of how to proceed.

_Why, indeed._

Axle saved him from that responsibility, strutting into Orion’s quarters as if she’d been born to walk amidst a castle’s walls. She studied Orion and Dante’s position - Orion standing, Dante seated below him - and a smirk graced her face.

“I wasn’t aware that you two fooled around without me,” she said. A plush robe was draped across her frame. Orion wondered where she’d gotten it. “Did Dante’s dick leave such a good impression on you, Governor?”

Orion grasped at the chance to _not_ address Dante. “You complained of leaving Bergellon, but you seem to be adjusting quite well to Stonerose’s comforts.”

“If I’m going to be here, I may as well enjoy it.” Axle reclined on his bed, crossing her long legs. “Don’t forget to pay me for my time.” Orion frowned. “We’re not friends, darling. I’m not earning money from my shop, so I’ll earn it here.”

Orion knew that Axle had only agreed to enter Living Stone after he’d promised to cover her transport and whichever funds she’d miss. On top of that, she’d taken him up when he sweetened the deal by inviting Dante. Axle never failed to remind him of her opinions on him.

Still … Orion didn’t want to be alone.

“Okay,” he capitulated. “The same amount?”

Axle cleaned her nails. “There’s a good boy. You might have to increase it, however. Think of it as goodwill to those of us who are not blessed to be aristocracy.”

“Fine.”

Smugness radiated from Axle. She motioned for Dante to join her on the bed. “Your brother is a strange child. Is it normal for him to talk to _birds_?”

“I wouldn’t be shocked if it was. And Corvus isn’t a child,” Orion scoffed. “He’s already fifteen. At his age, I was off to the pubs with my mates.”

“Your mother let you drink that young?” Dante asked. He placed his head in Axle’s lap, content as she ran her fingers through his hair.

“Of course not.” Orion grinned mischievously. “I did it whenever I was in school. Cleric Rodrigo’s had boarding exceptions for nobles, and so I was allowed to go home whenever I wanted. Naturally, I used the days away from Living Stone to do what pleased me.”

“And it pleased you to sling liquor with the lads.” Axle was unimpressed. “You went to an Echolysian school? Only a spoiled brat like you would have attended Cleric Rodrigo’s.”

Orion’s mood soured. He regarded Axle as she settled on _his_ bed. Outfitted in a robe, with the residual vehicle grease scrubbed from her tanned skin and her hair shining, Axle resembled the nobility that she snubbed. Had her muscles been less defined, Orion would have expected to see her giggling behind patterned fans and white gloves aside well-bred ladies of court.

_The comparison would no doubt send her into a black rage._

“My upbringing might not be to your _tastes_ ,” Orion’s mouth ran away from him, “but no one can claim that I was not the life of a party. You remember the night I rang you? It was after the Celestial Festival.”

Axle nodded. “I’d been sleeping too soundly to forget an interruption like that.”

“Well,” Orion said, “I had a small gathering to celebrate another year of my shit existence. Corvus wanted me to empty the castle - he said this when the party was in full swing, too - and I told him that I couldn’t do that. We had a go at each other, and someone got hurt.” Orion studied their reactions. “I smoothed everything over, no thanks to him. He could have gone and gotten his dick wet like his older brother, but he instead decided to trigger the entire fiasco.”

 _Or,_ you _could have just listened to him._ Orion buried his discomfort. _You couldn’t sleep that night, either. Not until the festivities died down, if at all._

Axle and Dante exchanged a glance. Orion would have traded all the wealth entombed within the Living Stone Rock to know what it _meant._

“You said your brother was fifteen,” Axle drawled. “That’s a bit young to be fucking anyone at your parties, isn’t it? I assume everyone there would have been in their twenties.” She grew skeptical. “Unless you regularly engage with people _his_ age.”

“I don’t invite schoolgirls to my parties if that’s what you’re implying. I like my women older.” Orion frowned. “Besides, things are different for boys. You wouldn’t know, Axle. I was a ladies’ man as far back as fifteen. I’d already lost _my_ maidenhead by then.”

“Did you, now?”

Orion spread his legs on the chaise. “My friends and I had invited ourselves to a bash held by the upperclassmen. I talked them into letting a bunch of green boys like us stay.” He laughed. “There was a girl - she had graduated years prior, and was there to reminisce - and the two of us _got along,_ if you take my meaning. And…”

And she’d ushered him to a quiet corner, one where the raucous noise wasn’t so overbearing, then she’d given Orion his first taste of fairymoss and giggled when he coughed. Orion didn’t remember it all that well - the alcohol he’d swiped and the fairymoss had been too strong for his inexperienced self - but she’d smiled sweetly as she’d made him a man.

Orion finished his retelling, smug. He faltered at Axle and Dante’s wide-eyed stares.

“What?” he demanded, perplexed.

“By any chance,” Axle said, “did she tell you not to mention it to anyone afterwards?”

“Well, yes, but…” Orion stalled. “It’s because I wasn’t supposed to be at that party. She was protecting me and the others from getting in trouble with the headmaster.”

Axle’s lip quivered. Orion narrowed his eyes when she burst out in fits of laughter. He ordered that she explain what was so thrilling, but that made her sides shake with more mirth.

Dante did not share her humour. “Orion,” he said slowly, “that wasn’t protection. She took advantage of you, and then tricked you into keeping quiet about it.”

“No.” Orion’s heart dropped. “No! She said I was the best … you must be mistaken.”

 _Concern_ wafted from Dante. Orion hated it; he wanted it gone.

“Drop it, Dante,” Axle said, shaking out her hair. “He’s so far up his own ass that he can’t recognize when someone has their way with him.” She hooted. “A _ladies’ man?_ Gods!”

“Nothing about that sounds _wrong_ , Orion?” Dante eschewed Axle’s words, a first for him. “I know you can’t honestly think that that was a normal thing for an adult to do with a _child_.”

Orion’s throat tightened. A torrent of emotions washed over him: anger, humiliation, doubt in his memories. He dragged them all into a tight ball and aimed it as far from himself as possible.

“Well, aren’t you _knowledgeable,_ Dante?” Orion snapped. “Why don’t you let me know how my dick tastes once Camille fucks her way through Coven before settling on you? Better still, you can scamper off to your father and tell him what a nobleman’s cock feels like!”

Silence.

Dante extracted himself from the bed, movements stiff as a board. His expression transition from his typical placid features to stunned, wounded, then _enraged._

“I’m _sick_ of you,” Dante said, a slight tremble in his otherwise calm voice. “You’re a piece of shit, you know that? I have tried so _hard_ to like you, tolerated your incessant demands whenever I’m forced to be in your presence, and yet I feel joy each time misfortune befalls your worthless name.”

The green eyes Orion remembered contrasted Dante’s dark brown irises, but the sentiment was the same. _I don’t hate you, Orion, but you make it so easy sometimes._

“And that’s what you are.” Malice poured from Dante’s eyes. “A _name._ No one fucking likes _you._ You’re just a name that people can use for their own benefit - a clan they can’t openly cross. If you think for _one_ moment that someone genuinely enjoys you for who you are, know that they’ve succeeded in their scheme.”

Of all the people to cut Orion to his core, Dante was the least expected.

Dante pushed his way past Orion, roughly bumping into him on his way out. Orion stood deathly still as he chewed the words over in his mind. The slamming of the door was not enough to rouse him from his stupor.

 _It’s true, isn’t it?_ Orion balled his fists. _All of it._

Orion was Lyra’s heir before he was her son, and he’d never lived the carefree life that Cesare had left behind as a result. His father hadn’t even deigned to take him on his stupid trip around the stupid Southern Sea. Corvus _,_ the biggest homebody in the kingdom, had opted out of his allocated days at home after their spat and only returned when the term ended for the summer. Even Quill had decreased the frequency of their conversations once he’d made headway in the Ironhill, no longer the lonely Potentate-in-waiting Orion had befriended on the road.

 _Now I’ll have a lovely wife,_ Orion thought, _to distract me with sweet words while she chases my name. Gods, I wish I’d never been a Livingstone._

“I hope I’m not your next target,” Axle yawned. “I’m rather less forgiving than Dante.”

Orion stared resolutely at the gilded flooring. “Are you going to leave, too?”

“No.”

“Why?” Orion released a shaky breath. His chest felt tight.

She rose from the bed, strolling to him with a daintiness she seldom displayed. The fine threads of her robe brushed together, rustling softly in the quiet room. Orion flinched when Axle caressed his cheek. Her hands were rough on his face.

_Axle, at least, has never lied about her dislike of me. I’ve known that since I met her._

There was that smirk again. “I want to meet your lady love.”

***

Cleric Rodrigo’s Academy was north of Stonerose, close enough for nobles in the area to return home when they wished but not so close that they’d make the commute often. Corvus used to return often, until he’d packed his traveling cases onto the train and stayed up north.

Orion had told himself that his brother was simply preparing for upcoming examinations - gods knew Corvus was as big a stickler for his studies as Isabelle - but it was wishful thinking. Orion’s attempts to reach him via speculum, telephone, even _letters_ had been for nought.

And when the summer began, Corvus had _still_ managed to keep a wide berth.

Orion placed his hands in his pockets. Servants bustled around him as they rushed to finish preparations for the arrival of the _true_ Governor and Lady Reyna Tydus. Hedges had been trimmed, floors scrubbed, furniture dusted. Both brothers had dressed nicely as waited.

It had been a while since Corvus had remained in Orion’s presence for this long.

“Hey, Corvus,” Orion said, testing the waters. “Are you up to some falconry later today? Or any time, really. It’s up to you.”

Corvus faced the door. “No, thanks.”

Orion cringed. “How about a spar, then?” he got into position. “A good old-fashioned magical duel? We can-”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t. The Silversong blood is robust.” Orion pressed on at Corvus’ lack of enthusiasm. “Come on, Corv. It’s summer! Boys your age are out there in search of their next adventure. You’re always up in the rookery tending the birds.” He laughed weakly. “Live a little, bud.”

“I like tending the birds.” Corvus’ expression flattened. “It’s the one thing I can do right."

Orion gave up. “You’re so _vindictive_. I’ve already forgiven you for calling me the family disappointment, but you can’t do the same for … mine.”

“I didn’t ask to be forgiven. They’re both true, aren’t they?” Corvus glared at him. “Why can’t you ever just say you’re sorry? It’s not that hard.” He conjured up a shard of ice and sent it flying at Orion. It sailed past his head and embedded into the wall behind him, severing a strand of hair. “I’m sorry for throwing that at you. Now it’s your turn.”

Orion remained silent. Corvus turned away without another word.

 _When did his tongue get so sharp?_ Orion wondered. He took in Corvus’ features with something akin to regret. _My baby brother grew up when I wasn’t watching._

An impressive line of vehicles drove past the castle’s gates. Orion recognized Lyra’s. One part of him was relieved to give up the title of Governor if only for a short period, but a larger part dreaded the new phase of his life that his mother had brought upon him.

 _The servants are already talking of the Governor’s orders._ Orion was irritated at them for deferring to Lyra before she’d even arrived, and irritated at _himself_ for being bothered. _As they should, I suppose. I was only acting in her stead. The acting Governor of Coven, and the acting Lord of Living Stone._

Acting, acting, acting.

There was more acting to be done as the attendants rushed to collect the belongings of the passengers. Lyra dismounted her vehicle, her heeled shoes clicking on the cobblestones. She shook her blonde hair out from a bun.

It was grayer than Orion remembered.

“It’s good to breathe the Covenese air again,” Lyra was saying as Orion dragged his feet. “I’ve been mired in the Ironhill so long that I forgot what it’s like to smell the sea, not that vile river.” Lyra glanced around. “Where is Lorenzo? Tell him to ready my quarters, though I’d _hope_ that he’s done so already. He knows how I am.”

 _Don’t we all?_ “Lady Livingstone,” Orion greeted.

“Ah, Orion. I admit congratulations are in order,” Lyra sniffed. “I expected to find Living Stone a ruin and the region in total anarchy.” She paused. “You look like you haven’t slept in Eras.”

There was real concern in her eyes. Orion felt uncomfortable. “ _Rough_ night,” he said, winking to throw her off.

It worked. “Did you bring a whore into my castle?” Lyra scowled.

 _Worse,_ Orion thought. _Someone I once called a friend._

Another vehicle opened, and a brown-skinned siren stepped out. She spread the folds of a black umbrella, holding it upright. A vampiric woman was next, and the hybrid lifted the umbrella over her head.

“Orion, Corvus,” Lyra waved her second heir over, “this is Lady Reyna Tydus.”

Reyna curtsied. Her flowing red dress flowed matched her lips. “Lord Orion,” she said, her voice lower than her sister’s. “Lord Corvus. It’s a pleasure to meet you both.” 

“The pleasure is mine, my lady,” Corvus responded. “It shall be an honour to call you ‘sister’.”

Pure approval radiated from Lyra. She stared pointedly at Orion.

He resisted rolling his eyes. “Lady Reyna.” He kissed her hand. “Stonerose welcomes you.”

“Thank you, my lord,” she said serenely.

Lyra led the way inside, already picking apart the faults. Many people crowded around her, some of whom she’d brought from the capital. Orion’s head spun as he tried to place their purposes. He walked astride Reyna as was custom, mesmerized by the sway of her tresses.

 _Isabelle doesn’t like her,_ Orion mused. _Reyna doesn’t look so intimidating when she smiles._

“Of course,” Lyra ranted, moving her hands. Her followers her took notes on every word she said. “Extensive preparations are needed. These windows will have to be coated in that black material - you know the one, yes? - lest Reyna and my grandchildren burn in the sunlight. Heavy drapes will suffice for so long. _That_ goes without mentioning food.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Vampiric diets are most inconvenient.”

Reyna spoke up, breaking the silence she’d maintained. “That must be why we tend to stay where sanguinem grows. It is not found much this far west.”

“Living Stone’s grounds are large enough for a sanguinem orchard. We can hire earth-elves to work their magic in growing them - it pains me to say that elemental surpasses alchemy in this regard. Where are the vases that used to be over there? Lorenzo! Mayhap…”

Orion tuned out the droning. Reyna slowly left his side in favour of Lyra’s.

“…nearly given up the search for a suitable spouse for Orion,” Lyra continued. “I scarce know the Ancienti clans, save the Croix or the Lyons, and many in Coven leave much to be desired. Can you imagine a _Charlemagne_ wench as Lady of Living Stone? So many low clans filled with bastards of dubious parentage.”

 _Why is Reyna laughing? She knows nothing of the Charlemagne Clan_ or _Coven._ Orion told himself to be kind to her, for Isabelle and Ares’ sakes. _They’re as unhappy about this as I am._

“Lord Orion,” a woman said. She stepped out from the throng of servants, dressed plainly in skirt and blouse. Her hair was tied in a simple fashion. “Shall I prepare a bath for your lady love? Surely, she’s worked up a sweat after climbing the stairs. Gods know how taxing that must have been for her.”

“Axle,” Orion warned. “Stop before my mother hears you.”

It was too late.

“That sounds excellent. Reyna, my staff will show you to your quarters and help you adjust. Supper will be ready soon.” Lyra frowned at Axle as Reyna curtsied and left. “I don’t recognize you. The castellan would have informed me if there were changes made to the servants.”

“She’s new,” Orion deflected. “I personally hired her. She’s paid from my pocket.”

“She needs to learn that you address a mother before her son, and a Governor before their heir.” Lyra’s face turned to suspicion. “Tell it true, Orion. Did I catch you before you could conceal her? Is she one of your whores?”

“Actually,” Axle said, gleeful, “he’s one of _my_ whores.”

“ _Excuse me?”_

“My apologies. He’s _my_ whore,” Axle curtsied, “my lady.”

“Fond of japes, she is,” Orion said, blocking Axle. “You can see why I chose her.”

Lyra’s green eyes were calculating, but she was pulled away by one of the kitchenhands. They stalked off together, talking of blood and sanguinem and eastern chefs. Orion deflated in relief.

“You’ve met Reyna now,” he said. “Keep your head down.”

Axle gave a curtsy more mocking than the first. “As the lord commands.”

The day progressed as tensely as Orion imagined. He spent hours sequestered in his chambers, praying to whichever of the gods was in the mood to listen that Lyra would not catch wind of his activities in her absence. Axle’s interest in Orion had diminished the moment Dante left, and so he was alone with his thoughts.

 _My thoughts have never been a good companion,_ Orion grimaced. He itched for fairymoss or a bottle of sweet Briarean wine to stall the swirling in his head. He’d even take a Covenese red, so desperate was he.

Suppertime was a boon and a curse. Orion filed into the dining room - opulently decorated in vibrant purple, with black roses plucked fresh from the garden - and sat at the table as if he were marching to war. Corvus looked no happier. Reyna claimed the seat across from Orion, the ends of her sleek black dress being fussed over by the siren that attended her. 

Conversation was carried by his mother and betrothed, the two of them speaking of their respective Master duties like old friends. Orion chased the food on his plate with a fork. He noted the dark red tinge of everything laid out for Reyna.

“My younger sister studies at the Arcane Institute,” Reyna said, gracious as a servant filled her glass. The diamonds on her necklace sparkled. “I myself worked with the DIA before becoming the Master of Intelligence.”

“The Arcane is almost as difficult as Bluerose to gain admittance to. I’ve considered sending Corvus there. Mayhap he can connect with Lady Isabelle. Would you like that, Corvus?” Lyra turned to Reyna without waiting for a response. “You must have been quite skilled to rise the Inner Circle. Your clan appears blessed in that department.”

“You flatter me, my lady.” Reyna delicately dabbed her lips. “A good memory can go a long way. Sharp minds are a Tydus trait. _My_ mother was known to enjoy the biological field herself.”

 _Isabelle oft brags of her memory, too._ This time, Orion _did_ roll his eyes. _They’re cut from the same cloth. Thank the gods Ares is not like that. I can’t stomach_ three _know-it-all Tyduses._

“More wine, my lord?” Axle asked. She held the bottle in her hands.

Orion jumped. “Why are you here?”

“You called me a servant. So,” she filled his glass to the brim, letting some spill, “I’m serving.”

Orion cursed. Lyra was too engrossed to notice the newcomer, and Corvus would be reticent either way. Orion downed the wine until it was at a more acceptable level, bidding Axle to _stay close to him._

“I heard that Jason Argent,” Orion choked as Lyra shifted to a new topic, “finally lost his mother. A memorial service is to be held. I don’t want to go, but it would be rude not to attend such a thing for an important vassal.” Lyra swirled her glass. “I’m surprised the woman lasted this long. It would have been kinder to take her off essence of poppy and let her _rest_. That fool boy would ascend, a damn shame, but better an able-bodied youth than an insensate bat.”

Reyna requested a servant refill her glass with bloodwine.

“Perhaps I can accompany you.” Reyna pushed her hair over her shoulders. “If I am to rule Coven at your son’s side, it would be good to know my future subjects. I can learn vassal names - Argent, Silversong, Rochefort, Valentin - but knowing their names is different from knowing their people _._ What better way to bond than in shared grief?”

Lyra nodded. “I don’t think Orion could name half so many clans. It’s settled, then.” She peered at Orion. “Don’t think _you_ aren’t coming. You need to learn that governing is not merely putting your signature on documents. Diplomacy is key.”

 _I’m plenty skilled at diplomacy. Which one of us sorted out the mess you made of western Coven?_ Orion stuffed roast in his mouth. “Have them prepare a casket for me, too.”

The sharp _ring!_ of shattered glass and Reyna’s gasp disrupted the argument that Orion could see building in Lyra. Servants rushed forward with cloths in hand. Orion blinked when he realized that the entire bottle of bloodwine had spilt onto Reyna’s dress. Her exposed skin was red with the sticky liquid.

“I’m _so_ sorry, my lady,” Axle said. “Let me-”

Reyna waved her away, beckoning the siren instead. “It’s no trouble.” Her lips were tight.

“Which gutter did you find this maid, Orion?” Lyra hissed. “Out, girl! You’ve done enough.” Axle curtsied and sashayed out. “Do forgive her, Reyna. She’s new.”

“As I said. It’s no trouble. The wine hardly shows up at all.” Reyna rose gracefully. “Might I retire? I fear the impression I’ll leave if I continue the meal while languishing in these stains.”

“Of course. Have a pleasant evening.” Lyra narrowed her eyes. “Orion will show you around the castle on the morrow.”

“I will?” Orion tore his gaze away from Axle’s retreating form.

“Let him know when it would please you, Reyna.”

Reyna nodded and exited, her siren close behind. An attendant cleared the dishes, while another mopped up the remnants of Axle’s proclivities. Orion stood, stating that he had no room for dessert, but was stopped at a sharp motion from Lyra.

“Well?” Lyra raised a brow. “Do you approve of her, Orion?”

“How nice of you to ask.” Orion placed his elbows on the table. “As it stands, I don’t. In fact, I’ve discovered that I am not averse to kissing other men. I’d like to experiment with this new development, but that will be difficult with a wife, don’t you think?”

“Experimenting.” Lyra’s tone was dry. “Are you now a scientist, or did you run out of women?” She poured wine for herself. “Reyna has a brother. I’m sure Hyperion won’t mind switching.” A deep pull. “It’s good that you’ve developed a taste for men. You insist on whoring yourself out despite my best efforts, so you may as well limit the opportunities for bastards.”

“I’m not a whore,” Orion mumbled.

“My apologies. _Whores_ get paid. You’re a philanthropist.”

Orion grit his teeth. “Is there a reason you wanted us to stay? Otherwise, I should like to rest before I _entertain_ Lady Reyna.”

“You’ve grown bold during your stint as Governor. I pity the region once you take over.” Lyra knitted her fingers. “Be that as it may. I have found an excellent match for you. And you, rosebud,” she addressed Corvus, “have your own match as well.”

Corvus startled. “I do?” 

“Indeed. The Sovereign and I have been in talks. Nothing is set in stone, but don’t be shocked if a jeweller summons you for crown fittings.”

Corvus’ grip on his cutlery tightened. “Who am I betrothed to, mother?”

Lyra wrinkled her nose. “Come now, Corvus. You’re smarter than that.”

Orion couldn’t resist laughing. “Brilliant! You just _had_ to upstage me, Your Highness. You’re to wed one of the royal twins.” Corvus glared at him. “Easy now. Don’t have the executioner make off with my head.” Orion sneered at Lyra. “You must be bursting with pride. Your perfect little boy is going to wear a crown.”

 _No, this is Lyra Livingstone we’re talking about_. There was no way in the five hells of the faiths that she’d be satisfied with anything but the best.

“Except Corvus isn’t going to wear _a_ crown, is he? He’s going to wear _the_ crown.” Orion bowed deeply. “I misspoke, _Your Grace._ You should be happy. You won’t have to be paraded in front of the Sovereign with all the other royal-aspirants of high society.” 

Corvus’ eyes widened. He set his cutlery down with shaking hands, pushing his plate away. Orion kept his superior grin in place lest he hang his head at his outburst.

“Will I be going back with you?” Corvus asked softly. “To the Ironhill?”

Lyra scoffed. “You’re not living in that city until I know you can handle it. The prince will come to Stonerose, more like, if this arrangement is to stand.” She leaned back in her chair. “Your children, Orion, will need seats. It’s past time Black Hall was put to use. I’d intended it for Corvus when he came of age, but he’ll have little need of it once he’s Potentate. And I _do_ mean for you to play a central role in Eurydice’s affairs, rosebud.”

 _Sovereign Ayden isn’t dead yet._ Orion clutched the stem of his glass. _Quill isn’t dead yet._

“Look at you,” Orion seethed. “Corvus and I are clearly displeased,” Corvus shifted uncomfortably, “while you’re marinating in your own _smugness._ I’d have thought that you of all people would understand the value of free will. Did you not marry for _love?_ ”

“You make it sound like I picked some peasant off the streets,” Lyra countered. “I know this isn’t exactly your forte, but the Silversongs are one of Coven’s most prominent clans. I, a liege lady, married a powerful vassal. It was politically advantageous.”

“Don’t lie to yourself!” Orion shouted. “Father was from the _branch_ family, with little chance of inheriting anything other than a hovel or two. If you truly wanted an important Silversong, you’d have wed fucking Uncle Dick _._ You gained nothing from marrying father other than your own happiness. Why can’t we do the same?”

Lyra shuddered at the mention of Richard Silversong.

“Since you’re so opposed to your station,” Lyra snarled, “I may as well send you to the clericy. They’ll strip you of your titles and political obligations, and you can spend your days analysing the Arcanum Antiquis. Would that make you happier?”

Orion stood, calling her bluff. “ _That_ would make Corvus your heir. I’m sure it would please you, but Potentates can’t hold governorships. You’d lose your lovely little throne.”

Lyra stood as well. “Then I’d find a new one.”

The heated exchange chilled when the room did.

Orion coughed at the sudden iciness, rubbing his palms to restore sensation. Lyra furrowed her brows, confused as him, and whipped her head around. Her eyes landed on Corvus.

“Is this an _ice_ rune?” Lyra pried Corvus’ hand from the table, staring at the blue icicles that were forming. “ _Is it on your body?”_ Corvus nodded weakly, exposing his arm. An ‘ice’ rune lay beside the specialized ‘fire’. “Who gave you these? What else do you have?”

Orion dreaded his response.

“I … I did,” Corvus whispered. “I found a rune kit and thought I’d practice. Because … because you have them. And Orion, and father.” He swallowed. “I only carved a few. There’s a ‘starlight’, too, but it isn’t dangerous.”

“Corvus, I _told_ you to inform me if you wanted to stop the conduit. Runes shouldn’t be done by children, and especially not on themselves. I’ve half a mind to punish you.”

“I’m sorry.” Corvus lowered his eyes.

“You did your own runes as a girl,” Orion defended.

“Because I had no fucking parents to worry about my wellbeing.” Lyra snapped. “You’re dismissed. And by the _gods,_ Corvus, stop the magic! This isn’t the Frozen Waste. I must have someone take a look at these,” she leered at the runes, “to make sure they are usable.”

 _I did them perfectly. Corvus just can’t control them._ Orion near sprinted away. _The ‘ice’ is new._

“Remember what I said, Orion!” Lyra called. “Escort Reyna around the premises!”

Orion stopped long enough to throw an ‘as the Governor commands’ over his shoulder. He groaned when he saw Axle leaning against a pillar.

“I expected a vapid court girl,” Axle said, unrepentant. “Your lady love may actually have a brain between her ears.”

“If she truly had one,” Orion made a beeline for his room, “she’d put it to use and run back to the Ironhill.”

\---

“Visiting my chambers directly, Lord Orion?” Reyna said. “What will the _people_ say? It’s a monstrous thing to dishonour yourself before marriage.”

The black nightdress Reyna wore brushed past the pale skin of her thighs, though she’d preserved her modesty with a thin red robe. Her hair shone as if it had been recently brushed, and the scent of the perfumed wafted from her. She must have woken not long ago.

Orion withdrew his hand from the door. “Are you implying that _you’re_ still a maiden?”

“Oh, I never said that.” Reyna blinked demurely. “Where is your mother?”

“Emotionally?” Orion shrugged. “A deserted fucking island. Physically? Her office, probably.” He placed his hands on his hips, keeping the sullenness out of his voice. “Lady Livingstone said to entertain you. So, let us be entertained.”

 _I could have come later in the day._ Orion rubbed his eyes tiredly, _but I didn’t sleep much last night, either. I might as well get this over with since I’m already awake._

Reyna pursed her lips. “And what will this entertainment be?”

“I hope you don’t mind leisurely strolls through too-large castles.”

“Something about foliage I’ve seen thousands of time never gets old.”

Orion chided himself for the spark of amusement he felt. He’d resolved to not like Reyna. It would be a difficult promise to keep if she continued matching him. He idled outside of her chambers, giving her privacy as she dressed, and mapped out the least tedious course.

Reyna soon stepped out in a lilac dress. It made her look … softer, somehow, than the red dress she’d worn on arrival or the black dinner gown. Her resemblance to Isabelle was clearer, too, although her sister’s shorter, black-brown hair diminished it somewhat.

Reyna fell in step beside Orion. Her hands were folded neatly in front of her, an umbrella clutched between her manicured fingers.

Orion glanced around. “Where is your attendant?” he inquired. “The siren?”

Reyna smiled. “Chione is a siren-elf,” she corrected. “She won’t be coming. I’d like to better know the man I am to marry. I’d hope that a husband and wife can talk without others present.”

 _What does one do with a wife?_ He wondered. “I see.”

They traversed the castle, with Orion flatly describing each vaguely-interesting landmark. Reyna hummed, periodically requesting more information or nodding along. Servants bowed or curtsied as they passed, many rushing to draw curtains to disrupt the morning sun. Reyna stopped to thank them each time, impeding their progress, and Orion swiftly began closing them himself using his ‘movement’ rune.

 _The sooner I complete this ‘tour’,_ he waved a hand and watched the drapes flutter, _the sooner I can return to my quarters and sulk. No wonder Quill was so miserable on Tyrant’s March._

“Can you unhinge your jaw?” Orion asked, breaking another awkward silence.

Reyna inclined her head. “I’d rather not.”

He regarded Reyna’s fangs warily. “Why? Does it hurt when vampires do it?”

“I don’t need a reason to decline. Even so, does it hurt when mages perform alchemy?”

 _Apparently, it does._ “Fair enough.”

If Orion was determined to navigate as fast as was socially acceptable, Reyna held the opposite sentiments. She poked her head in every room, chatted with each straggler, admired all the ornate decorations and paintings. Orion bit his tongue as she hovered by the grand staircase, complimenting the fine brushwork used on the various portraits.

“Who are they?” Reyna asked. She gazed at a particularly large painting.

In it were several people, few of which Orion recognized. His grandparents - Andromeda and Sirius Livingstone - were there, as well as a girl with such a self-satisfied sneer that it could only be Lyra. Sirius’ hand rested on Lyra’s shoulder as Andromeda sat regally in the centre. Mother and daughter bore the same green eyes, verdant as emeralds, as did a number of the Livingstones prior.

They stood around the former Lady and Lord, ranks indicated by their positions. Many of them boasted crowns of golden hair. Purple banners hung in the background, the black rose sigil illustrated so expertly as to be lifelike. _Glory, victory, pride_ read underneath the painting in the dead language of the Echolyte Empire.

“Livingstones,” Orion answered. “When the uprisings hadn’t occurred, and my grandparents were still alive.”

Reyna’s pale eyes found his. “What happened to the rest?”

Orion shrugged. “Dead or exiled or married into other clans and scarce Livingstones anymore. It’s now just me, my brother, and my mother. There was my father too - if that counts - but he’s gone.” He chuckled. “Don’t ask me where.”

A gentle hand graced his shoulder. “There shall be more,” Reyna said.

_The last thing the realm needs is more Livingstones._

“So, there shall.” Orion brushed her off. “I hope you’re in the mood for foliage.”

“Oh, quite.”

Orion led them outside, perusing the gardens. Heavy roses bloomed in their hedges - black, white, red, pink, yellow, even the sought-after blues - and lent the air their scent. A pond reflected the towering white structures of the castle, a peacock or two lapping up its waters. The mountain loomed beyond them, keeping a watchful eye over its city.

In the distance, the seagulls squalled as they circled the Southern Sea.

“Here’s a rose,” Orion said, pointing out each flower. “And another, and another. This may be - oh, wait. It’s a rose.”

Reyna knelt by a hedge and plucked one, clicking at a white flower. “ _These_ are different.”

Orion paused. “Perhaps a new type of rose.”

“No.” Dark nails traced the pale petals. “They’re moonflowers.”

“There you have it. Rose, rose, moonflower, rose.”

They walked until they neared the edge of a level overlooking the sea. They could go lower and find the pools with their network of caves, or they could make a sharp curve and wind up in the training grounds. The Rosemonts had utilized the mountain itself when they’d constructed Rosewood Vineyard, and the Black-turned-Livingstones had capitalized on this in their creation of Living Stone.

Orion stayed put. Ships had started braving the sea. The docks swelled with approaching vessels, the faint ring of bells breaking through the wind.

Reyna unfurled her umbrella. “Your father was a Silversong by birth, yes? I understand that clan’s seafaring history is extensive. Do you know how to sail, Lord Orion?”

“Somewhat. My father taught me the ropes when I wasn’t locked away learning how to head a clan or govern a region.” Orion breathed in the salt. “I haven’t been on the open water in a while. Must be the landlubber blood.”

“Mayhap you could teach me, and our children,” Reyna said. Orion tensed at the reminder of his _obligations._ “Starkhall, the city I grew up in, is landlocked. Even now I’m rarely aboard ships or on the open water, save the ferries along the Fair Serpent.”

“A true sailor would bemoan those boats.”

Reyna smiled. “I never claimed to be a sailor.”

“Neither did I.”

Orion hesitated before taking control of Reyna’s umbrella using his ‘movement’ rune. It floated above her, freeing her hands. She thanked him.

“It’s nothing,” Orion dismissed.

For a time, the only noise between them was the sound of the sea. The scent of Reyna’s perfume occasionally overshadowed that of the sea-salt. Orion’s stomach rumbled in protest of its emptiness, but he was rather enjoying being outdoors.

“Isabelle said not to trust you,” Orion drawled, keeping his gaze forward.

“Did she?” Reyna seemed _amused._ “Little siblings say the most endearing things. I’m sure Lord Corvus has choice words about you.” 

“Oh, he definitely does.”

Orion laughed in tandem with Reyna. The tension in his body relaxed at the sensation of true laughter, but it was ruined when Orion recalled Dante’s parting words.

“What’s your game, then?” Orion asked. He reined in his mirth.

“Game?”

“You’re not marrying me for love or my dazzling good looks - not that I’d be surprised if you were - because we didn’t properly meet until yesterday. Therefore, you want something.”

Reyna swept her hair across her shoulders, revealing her collarbones. “Is it so wrong for a second-born to seek better prospects? My brother is the Clan Head. I’m his heir, but my position is unsustainable. I’m wedding someone of my choosing before Hyperion produces children and has no need of me.” 

“I doubt the Livingstones are the solace that you seek. Dare I say you’d be better off with your birth clan.” Orion adopted a clipped lilt. “The Livingstones are more than just aristocracy. We are the descendants of the chosen kingdom of Echolyse, and we exemplify _glory, victory, and pride_ in everything that we do. Failure to uphold this most noble calling besmirches the good name of alchemy itself, and disappointing roses must be scourged from the bush.” He dropped the accent. “Or so my bloodline tutors claimed.”

Reyna laughed into her hand, ladylike and musical. It was a pretty noise.

Orion inhaled. “Well, Lady Tydus? Have I convinced you to run for the hills?”

“Not quite. Dragonfyre Keep is no better.” Reyna’s peals quietened into giggled. “My mother died birthing my little brother. He won’t admit it, but I know he blames himself.”

_Ares doesn’t talk about her. Neither does Isabelle._

“My father died shortly after,” Reyna continued. “Healers said he laced his tea with nightshade because he couldn’t bear to be parted from his beloved Lenora. He always did like his tea.” She grew quiet. “In truth, my parents hated each other. They only stayed together to avoid shaming the clan’s name. I don’t see why. They’d brought shame seven times over. Separating wouldn’t have worsened it. If anything, half the problems would’ve been solved.”

Competitiveness rose in Orion’s blood. “ _My_ mother decided that managing the _shit_ out of every single aspect of the region was a suitable substitute for my father’s absence instead of, say, _searching_ for him.”

_And then I left Corvus alone with that mess._

Reyna’s eyes glittered. “ _My_ father had a secret family. I met his ‘wife’ and my half-siblings, once. They weren’t to my tastes.” She pressed on. “And when I was a girl, my mother tasked me with seducing an older male. Then she punished me when I failed.”

Orion halted. “At what age was this?”

“Eight or nine.”

“That was a monstrous thing to ask of a little girl.”

Reyna stroked her arm, seemingly lost in thought. “It was, wasn’t it?”

“When I was a boy,” Orion’s heart pounded, “someone I trusted mad- had her way with me.”

Reyna’s eyes widened. “That’s horrible. I can’t best that.” She brushed his arm, the action almost soothing. “Did you inform someone? Seek justice?”

“No. It took me a while to realize what had happened, and by then it was too late.” He forced a laugh. “This isn’t what my mother meant when she told me to entertain you.”

Seagulls cawed.

“Do you … want to talk about it?” Reyna’s question was careful.

“It will take a lifetime to work through _any_ of the things that we’ve mentioned.” Orion watched the bobbing ships. “I’ve exhausted my talking reservoirs for the day.”

_Echolyse’s tits. Our children won’t know which parent to blame their problems on._

Reyna’s eyes glowed from beneath the shade of the umbrella. They were like Isabelle’s, Orion noted. Bright, sharp, piercing, so icy as to be near-white. But when they reflected the dark blue waters of the Southern Sea, he thought of Ares.

Then she smiled, and Orion saw only Reyna.

“You don’t like it when people get close, do you?” she said. “I’m much the same way.” Reyna stared at the black rose from the garden. “That’s alright. We have a lifetime.”

Orion did not protest when Reyna threaded her fingers through his. He squeezed her hand instinctively, but he couldn’t quite relax into her touch.

_If you think for one moment that someone genuinely enjoys you for who you are, know that they’ve succeeded in their scheme._

Orion released her. His hand was colder than before they’d joined.

“Let’s get you back inside, my lady.” He turned his back on the city. “I’m sure Lyra is _dying_ to criticize my performance.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Orion 3 seconds after meeting someone he’s attracted to: do you want to know my family trauma?  
> Screw dinner and a movie. We're comparing traumas and family toxicity now <3


	46. Ambitions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rising tides

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was fun to write. I've missed all the politics and schemes. It was going to be 2 perspectives that I split into separate chapters, so don't be shocked if another one is posted soon 😅

Celestina Lycan  
Westedge, 1 Cardinal

***

Celestina dreamt that she was a wolf.

Not the wolf-touched human that Remus had made her, no. A real wolf.

She ran through a dense forest, guided by the moonlight. The wind was in her fur and the earth brushed her paws. Needles from the trees poked her coat, but they scarce bothered her. She tasted the air, breathing in the scent of snow and prey and _pack_. Her mate was within her sights, a great black wolf with eyes of amber. He was far ahead but never out of reach, climbing a sharp outcropping of stone that jutted towards the full moon.

Celestina stopped to lap at the cool water of a partially-melted stream. A brown wolf stared back, golden eyes contrasting the silver moonlight. In her reflection she saw her pups beside her, whole and happy. Two black and three brown, the lights of her life.

Then, a serpent with blackened scales snapped one up in a flash.

Another wolf carried a second away, its paws leaving bloody prints in the snow. Her pup’s wails rang through the forest as the bloody-pawed wolf lopped off into the night. Terror gripped Celestina when she realized that the third pup was not a reflection at all, but was instead thrashing _within_ the water. They all howled for her, high-pitched and broken, but she did not know which call to heed.

She looked to her mate, but the great black wolf was gone.

The _moon_ itself was gone, leaving the sky an empty void. Celestina howled in despair, shaking the trees with her cries of anguish. Her throat grew hoarse, but still she persisted. How long was she howling? An hour? A day? An Era?

These questions needed no answers, for a hunter emerged from the treeline. He aimed his weapon at her, smiling ruefully, and loosed an arrow into her heart.

Celestina woke with a start, her hair clinging to her face.

She reached for Theron, hands roving blindly across the bed, but he was not there. Celestina’s heart clenched, fading memories of a darkened sky flitting across her mind. For a moment, she was back in Lunares in the days where Theron still held command in Stepes. She sat up in dread, half-expecting a steward to knock on her door and deliver the words she’d always feared.

Then she saw the twin hearths in her chambers, and she knew that _this_ was Westedge, and Theron was in the same castle as her, and her children were not.

 _We should never have left the Tower,_ Celestina thought, clutching the sheets. Her nightgown was soaked in sweat. _Lycans were never meant to hold the Annex, and Remus is punishing us._

The everyday bustle of the castle drew her attention. Shouts, cries, noises that told her that Westedge was waking up. It was time for her to wake, too.

Celestina sighed raggedly, pushed the damp strands of her hair from her face, rose from her bed, and become the Lady of Scarwood Hold.

She broke her fast on brown bread, the taste barely registering on her tongue. Servants bowed while stewards provided her with a list of things that would require her hand, and Celestina carried herself with a grace that she hoped concealed her exhaustion.

 _When was the last time I cried this much and this frequently?_ Celestina wondered. She skimmed over matters of state, unable to dedicate the proper care to her duties. _Surely not since the Liberation._

In the year when the Insurgency was in its death throes, Celestina had practically lived with her heart in her throat. They’d lost contact with so many strongholds east of Homestead, what with the crown loyalists bearing down relentlessly, and Celestina had feared for the future. That fear had been amplified when she learned that Dadia’s Rest itself had fallen - as had so many that were within its city. Months were spent with nothing from Theron … until he’d returned.

 _Sent on a diplomatic mission to Coven_ , he’d explained, _once it had been deduced that the Sovereign had broken his vows when he crossed the ‘neutral’ region_. _Told to convince the Lady of Living Stone to reconsider her decision to abandon the Insurgent cause._

The Red Massacre had occurred before Theron had even reached the border, but Celestina hadn’t cared for any of that. _We’ve lost, Tina,_ Theron had said. _The war is over._ And she’d held him because it didn’t matter _._ He was _there_ ; in the Annex, Lunares, in her arms. It hadn’t even mattered when the war persisted for another five years.

 _Now Ezra is taken captive,_ Celestina thought, rising from the table, _and I’d lose the thrice-damned Ark Islands if it meant I could have him back in my arms._

She walked down the winding staircase leading down from the upper levels, her hands brushing on the railings. Soft _clicks_ rang out each time her shoes struck the steps. Lycan banners fluttered overhead, the heavy fabrics striking the stone walls.

 _These stones are old._ Celestina ran her hands along the cool surface. _Once, they saw the Lunaen kings as they tried to raise their fallen kingdom. Then those same kings set down their crowns for the good of the western lands they were forced to call home._ A banner flapped. _I wonder…_

She bumped into someone.

“P-pardon me, my lady,” Alysanna Mooreshield said, curtsying deeply. “I should have been watching where I was going.”

“It is no trouble, Lady Alysanna,” Celestina said.

Alysanna was a sweet girl, she remembered. Old enough to head her clan, aye, but young enough for it to be unwise. Her parents had fallen sometime after the Siege of Tyrant’s March, and Celestina did not doubt that an uncle or aunt was the _real_ power behind the Mooreshield Clan. She softened her tone, not wanting to give Alysanna reason to worry.

“May I help you?” Celestina asked.

“N-no.” Alysanna shrunk behind her curtain of brown hair. “I, um, was just … looking. For something.”

“What might it be?” She crossed her arms over her skirts. “Mayhap I could be of assistance.”

“It’s fine, my lady,” Alysanna squeaked. She curtsied and backed away, the words tumbling from her mouth. “I shall go now, begging your pardons. Thank you again for having me. I … my retinue will be leaving over the morrow, if it please you.”

“I pray Remus offers you safe travels. Morhammer is quite far from Scarwood.”

Celestina watched Alysanna scamper off, the girl’s skirts swishing and her hair bouncing. In her old life, before hers had become the Great Clan, Celestina would have found her a suitable match for any of her children.

 _Not Viscardi or Luna. I fear they’d intimidate the poor girl._ The idea made her laugh quietly. It hurt her chest with how rarely she’d been doing it of late. _Ezra, perhaps, if not for Blair. He’s gentle enough for one as tender-hearted as Alysanna._

The thought of her eldest son dampened her mood. Celestina continued on her path, seeking a distraction. _What was Alysanna doing up here?_

Celestina paused as she passed the council room of the Hold, noting the muffled voices within. It was not unusual for Theron to call meetings in there - he’d done it quite frequently in the early days of his governorship, when he’d returned from the capital - but seldom had he arranged one without her. Celestina did not take it as a rebuff. She set it aside and moved past the wooden doors, pausing a second time at a familiar baritone.

She nodded at the guard on the door. “It appears my lord husband called his council.”

The guard bowed. “Aye, my lady.”

Celestina pushed the door at the confirmation, not waiting for the guard to do it. The wood creaked as it opened, announcing Celestina’s presence. Conversation died, and several pairs of eyes found her.

Celestina took in the gathered people. Theron sat at the high seat of the Wolffs - the Lycans, now, she reminded herself. A number of Lycan-sworn captains occupied the chairs around him, many of whom she recognized from Beowulf Tower. A Tikaani here and a Maheegan there, as well as Lord Marque Endsel. She lingered on Endsel, recalling that his son was close with Ezra.

 _What become of his boy?_ She wondered. _He travelled with Ezra. What a rotten liege lady I am. I didn’t even think to ask of him._

The realization that others were just as affected by the Greeneport’s betrayal brought her no joy; instead, it deepened her pain. She swallowed and stood upright, beckoning the guard to shut the door behind her.

“Lady Celestina,” Enola Maheegan said. She rose, as did the others. “My greetings to you.”

“And I you, Lady Enola. All of you.” Celestina wrapped her hands into the sleeves of her dress, looking to her husband. “Why was I not summoned?”

“I did not wish to trouble you,” Theron answered. He had remained seated, leaning on the table. “This matter is … sensitive, and you’ve been unwell.”

Celestina stalked forward, making for an unoccupied seat. “You think that this is the first time that I’ve managed a castle while in grief?” She sat primly. “If I could hold Beowulf Tower during the Liberation, I can,” a sharp inhale, “survive one meeting.”

“Stubborn as always. I’d mistake you for a _wolverine_ more so than a wolf.”

Celestina glanced up at the voice that had drawn her to the council room. Lord Anoki Mooncrest left his chair and bid the man nearest her - Jahn Tikaani, as it was - to switch places with him. He settled by her side, entwining his big hands with her smaller ones. Where they’d once been thick and corded with muscle, the flesh had begun to give way to time. Celestina gripped him tightly.

“How fares my littlest wolf?” Anoki asked.

“I am well, father.” Celestina kept her eyes trained on Anoki, allowing Theron to resume the meeting.

“And the little wolves of my little wolf?”

“Lorelei is well. She rides for Homestead as we speak. I imagine she’s nearly there.” Celestina fought back the apprehension at having _another_ of her children so far from her. “Quill says he is well. Viscardi and Luna have been taxing, but I am sure that I was no better at their age.”

“Nonsense,” Anoki smiled. “Your sisters, however…”

Celestina wished she shared his mirth. “When did you get here? Surely I would have known of your arrival.”

“Not long ago. I rode day and night once I learnt of Ezra. I scarcely had time to fasten my boots, I left Moonstone so fast.”

Celestina caressed a weathered palm. “Rest a while.” She spotted the chamberlain. “Rhys, I-”

“There’s no need,” Anoki waved. “I came to discuss Ezra, and that is what I will do. Anything else comes later.”

Celestina reluctantly heeded her father’s words. A part of her bristled at Theron for excluding her from talks of her own son, but another was almost glad for it what with the pitying gazes that were periodically sent her way.

She tuned into the meeting, getting a summary of events from her father and an adjacent advisor. Theron had been seeking new methods of taking the Ark Islands, preferably ones that limited the time spent in naval combat. Celestina did not fault him for that. The Greeneports held nearly all their strength at sea. Destroying their navy would weaken the region, and that went without mentioning how difficult it would be to even amass that much power quickly.

Celestina pursed her lips. _I’d see a thousand ships burn if it brought me my son._

Oceanfall as a stronghold was not as impressive as, say, Scarwood Hold or even Celestial Abbey. Celestina had learned of it in her studies as a child, dutifully memorizing the list of castles belonging to the mightiest of the vassals in the event that she was wed to any of them. It was a castle built more for shelter than proper besieging, as the Lesser Sea was the _true_ protector of the Ark Islands. Oceanfall sat spread out across a few smaller islands, awarding its occupants with a view of all ships that sailed the waters. In the event that the Lesser Sea imitated its southern sister, and any assailants had the vessels to withstand the Greeneport fleet, Oceanfall would not be an impossible castle to take. Should it follow the Northern Sea, however, and should the winds favour the Greeneports…

 _Would that I had a dragon. A wyvern would suffice, small as they are._ Celestina sighed. _What use are ships when one can fly?_

“The Greeneports wish to parley,” Rhys said warily, “and negotiate.”

Theron’s face contorted. “They think I’m foolish enough to believe that? They used a _peace negotiation_ to strike at me! None of them knew that Ezra would be aboard those ships in my place.” He grew quiet. “They meant to kill me. This is their second attempt.”

Jahn Tikaani nodded. “Tell them they can stuff their _parley_ right up their asses, aside their fishes. The damn things were far too slimy for my liking, anyway.”

Chuckles abounded.

Celestina frowned. “Perchance we should heed them, Theron. Do you not fear what they’ll do to Ezra if we don’t?” Her claws scraped the table. “It was in the Viper’s best interest to keep Quill hale and hearty, lest the realm turn on him. _”_ Curved claws lengthened. “The same can’t be said of the Greeneports and Ezra. He’s more useful to them alive than dead, but that doesn’t mean that they will treat him as an honoured guest.”

“It would have been in the Greeneports’ interests to swear fealty to the Lycans from the start,” Maheegan mumbled. “We should put Oceanfall to the torch for this transgression.”

“And turn the region against the Lycans?” Anoki countered. The room quietened. “The Greeneports are Annexian, same as us. It matters little that they have a higher tolerance for the sea. They guarded our coastlines, carried us east on their ships when we needed them.” Dark gold eyes met Theron’s amber. “You do this, son, and you reopen the wound that the Wolffs have ripped through the Annex’s belly. ‘Who is next?’ the clans will ask.”

“They provoked me when they took my son. None can fault me for acting as any father should. Would you not attack anyone that struck at your daughters?” Theron turned to Rhys. “If it’s war they want, they shall have it. I’ve cut their allies down to nothing, and-”

“With what _ships?_ ” Endsel interrupted. “Forgive my intrusion, my lord, but they won’t be goaded into fighting on land. Especially now that they’re guarding hostages. Your son, _my_ son. Any battles will be fought on the sea. We can raise a few, but not near enough to match them.”

Theron begrudgingly held his tongue, displeasure clear across his countenance. Celestina was reminded of their youth. The years had tempered his rashness, but she could still see the ghost of it. It had fed his ambitions then, and it doubtless fed them now.

“Have they given any terms?” Theron asked. He threaded his fingers together.

“You won’t like them, my lord,” Rhys answered.

“I asked what they were, not whether I’d like them. I shall decide the latter for myself.”

“Very well.” Rhys procured a slip of parchment. “They want the Lycans to relinquish the Ark Islands, so that they may rule themselves as they choose.” A rush of anger swept over the room. “They shall keep Lord Ezra in Oceanfall to ensure continued good faith between the Annex and the new-freed Islands. Quarterly updates will be sent to assuage any doubts of his health. Finally, the Wolffs - all of them - must be transferred into the care of the Greeneports.” Rhys coughed. “There are finer details, my lord, but these are the most pressing.” 

Celestina bit her lip to avoid snarling. The gathered werewolves, save Theron and Anoki, were not so reserved.

“I see,” Theron said. “Lord Jahn,” the man looked up at his name, “you said you knew of people that could construct ships swiftly?”

“Aye, my lord,” Jahn Tikaani said.

“Good. Contact them with instructions of preparing vessels in the name of the Governor. As many as possible that can see our enemies crushed.”

Celestina balled her fists. “Are you rejecting their terms, Theron?”

“Every single one of them. I mistook Anne Greeneport for the Lady of Oceanfall, not a common fishwife. She always bargained like one, in any case, but I refuse to indulge her haggling on this front.”

A chorus of ‘ _aye!’_ and ‘ _well said, my lord’_ and ‘ _the sea itself will be needed to quench the flames of Oceanfall’_ went up at the declaration.

Celestina snapped. “You expect everyone to set aside their pride, and yet you refuse to do the same when it is your turn.”

Theron narrowed his eyes as his bannermen respectfully averted their gazes. “Are you suggesting that I _accept_ these terms? Would you truly be satisfied with _quarterly updates_?”

Celestina’s voice took on an icy tone. “Write the Sovereign. Have him send the royal fleet to rescue his _brother_ by law. Is that not what you sold Quill for?” She gave a pointed glare. “To have the power of the crown at your back?”

Theron matched her. “The Annex will never accept me as the Governor if I let someone else solve my problems. The war might be over, and we may have united against the Wolffs, but that does not mean that the region bears any love for the Red Throne. How will it look if I flood the region with _Caedises_ at each inconvenience?”

 _So, you recognize that_ this _is your fault?_ Celestina bit her tongue and let the strategists strategize. _Here you are, speaking of our son’s capture as if it is an inconvenience. I’d swim the Lesser Sea myself if that was what it took to reach Oceanfall._

The advisors talked and bartered and cajoled each other, Anoki periodically squeezed her hand, and Celestina willed her temper to cool. If any of those proximal to her heard the scratch of her nails on the table, they wisely did not mention it.

“None of these are enough,” Theron was saying. “There must be a larger game in play here if the Greeneports were able to defeat the Livingstones’ fleet. They may overshadow other Annexian clans, but certainly not Coven’s.”

“Mayhap the Tridents took part,” Enola Maheegan offered. “They already hold the Northern and Southern Seas. Why not the Lesser as well? We all know that the average Ark Islander bears less than an ideal amount of werewolf blood.”

The group murmured at that. Celestina turned the idea over in her mind. Lady Maheegan did have a point, though Celestina failed to grasp _why_ Queen Tiberia would involve herself in the affairs of another region or risk conflict with Coven for the likes of the Greeneports. The Seas were famous for their reclusiveness and neutrality above all else, unless the issue affected _them_ personally.

 _Lady Enola had the right of it when she mentioned the high siren population of the islands,_ Celestina thought. _Even so_ , _I’d not be eager to involve myself if some rebellious werewolf faction sprung up in Briar._

“You mentioned the Livingstones,” Anoki said, contemplatively rubbing his chin. Celestina felt as if she were a girl again, watching her father smoke his pipe aside the fireplace of Celestial Abbey. “What part do they have in all of this?”

“I invested Lyra Livingstone in the Ark Islands.” Theron crossed his arms. “We arranged for her to send her fleet when the time came to secure them.”

“And in exchange?” Anoki wrinkled his nose. “Mages don’t work for free, and I know how _that_ one in particular can be.”

Celestina knew of her father and husband’s history with Coven. Years ago, when the rebellion was in its infancy and Silas Wolff had been a liberator rather than a warmonger, a small group of Insurgents had been sent to Stonerose. They’d been borne aboard Greeneport ships - Celestina closed her eyes at the reminder of the clan that currently plagued her - to treat with the young Governor of Coven and persuade her to join their cause.

Anoki had described Lady Livingstone as surprisingly difficult, as they’d expected her to jump at the chance to avenge her clan after the harsh endings of the Second and Third Mage Uprisings. She’d instead granted them one night in her castle to rest after their long journey, commanding that they be gone when she woke in the morning.

 _I’d given up hope of recruiting Lyra Livingstone,_ Anoki had told her during one of the calmer phases of the war, _and thanked her for being so gracious as to let us spend the night in her keep. Then this Lycan lad - he was barely older than you, sweetling, and had been silent for a majority of the affair - went off to treat with her. The next day, we had a powerful ally. I knew then and there that I’d found the perfect husband for you._

“In exchange,” Theron sighed, “she’d have partial ownership of the Lesser Sea.” He stiffened at the nervous mutters. “I only asked for a handful of ships and a few changes to her supply lines. I know how Lyra operates - any extra effort on her part, and she’d demand more than I was willing to give her. The vessels she provided were meant to discourage attacks more than anything, as I had not anticipated the Greeneports having the strength to properly retaliate.”

“I must be correct,” Enola Maheegan said. “Lord Ezra would have been outnumbered, but hardly outmatched. They’ve been raiding stragglers, before melting back onto their islands. Who could defeat the Covenese ships, if not the Tridents?”

“I mislike that proposal,” Theron argued. “I agree that the Tridents can best the Livingstones at sea. They could best the _crown_ , if they set their minds to it. I’ve no more than a cursory acquaintance with Queen Tiberia, however, and yet I _still_ find it odd that she’d involve herself.”

“A foreign power, then. Mayhap some company that they hired.”

“With what coin? I cut the supply lines east…”

 _Maheegans love to argue._ Celestina twirled a loose thread of her skirt as they went back and forth. _If I let this continue, Lady Enola will chew this issue to the bone._

“Do we know for certain that the Greeneports overpowered Ezra?” Celestina chose her words carefully. She had not spoken in a while.

“How else would this have happened?” Theron was mulish. “Ezra did not walk into Oceanfall and ask them to slap him in chains, I assure you.”

“If the Livingstone fleet was defeated,” Celestina said, “then we would have been informed of it the moment the first cannon was fired. I may not know Lady Livingstone as well as you do, but she does not strike me as the type to overlook a loss such as that if even one of her ships sank on our behalf. Unless I am mistaken?”

Theron was quiet. “You are not.”

“Let us think for a minute. It’s either the Greeneports overpowered the Livingstones _-_ with or without the help of some unknown third party. Or,” Celestina addressed all of them, “they had nothing to overpower.”

Silence.

“Are you suggesting that Lyra betrayed me?” Distress rolled off her husband in waves. 

Celestina softened her tongue. “Would that be out of character? What reason has she given you to place such trust in her?” 

“She backed the Insurgents for _years,_ Tina. Her head would have been on a spike the second Damien Caedis caught wind of her true allegiance, yet she joined us anyway.”

“And then she withdrew support when it was no longer in her favour.” Celestina steeled herself, knowing that Theron would not react well to her line of questioning. “According to the terms of your agreement, Lady Livingstone was operating at a loss as long as the Greeneports remained in opposition. Mayhap she decided that the reward was no longer worth the strain.”

Theron grew quiet once more.

It pained Celestina to make these suggestions, and she was not a tactician by any means, but it was the only solution that made sense to her. She bore no animosity towards Coven or its mages, but she admitted that the region did not have a history of trustworthiness. It would not be the first time that the Covenese had left werewolves to their fate.

“It makes more sense than the Tridents taking up arms against the Lycans on the whims of vassals that aren’t even their own,” Celestina prodded, laying the last brick. “And nothing is ever set in stone when it comes to Coven.”

 _I pray that this does not lead to a war between our regions._ Celestina watched a series of emotions play out on Theron’s face. _They are old friends, Theron and Lyra. It would wound him to fight her, and our people were broken the last time we fought mages._

“I need to think,” Theron finally said. “You are all dismissed.”

They rose and bowed, streaming out of the council room. Celestina instructed Rhys to have rooms prepared for her father, strongly encouraging the man to soak his bones in hot water.

“Don’t worry, my lady,” one of the old captains said, idling by Celestina. “Your lord husband has a knack for getting his way. If he can make an Insurgent out of a bloody Livingstone and put a Lycan on the Caedis’ fire-chair, he can have Ezra back by the morrow.”

He laughed and slapped Anoki on the back, and the two walked away together with stories of their glory days hanging in the air.

“There’s my grandson,” she heard Anoki say once they’d exited. “Viscardi, you’re growing tall. What’s this I hear of your temper? When I…”

His voice faded away.

Celestina remained.

“Theron,” she said, another issue coming to her, “when will this business with the Wolfhearts be concluded?”

“Hmm?” His distraction was clear. “Soon. They’ve been reinstated under my authority.”

“And Viscardi’s betrothal?”

“Will be dissolved when it is pragmatic to do so.”

Celestina frowned. “When will that be? I cannot stand the way Jericho looks at him.”

“Jericho’s body will be relieved of his head if he tries anything before Viscardi is of age.” Theron’s eyebrows knitted before relaxing. “If it’s any consolation, Tina, I plan to find suitable matches befitting members of a Great Clan. Any more Annexian marriages would be a waste. I’d rather wed Viscardi to an influential clan in another region to expand our influence. Luna, too, can give us a foothold out east. In a few years’ time, when Quill grows into his place as Potentate, plans can be made to-”

“Can you separate family and politics for _once?_ ” Celestina interjected. “Ezra sits in Oceanfall wondering if each day is his last, that _man_ stalks about Scarwood leering at Viscardi, and you’re worried about expansion.”

“ _Expansion_ is what will strengthen our clan and avoid situations like this, where our children are captured and we’re left scrambling. There is no way to separate family and politics at this level of rulership.” Theron left the high seat. “The Annex was never the strongest of the seven regions, and prolonged warfare did not help. I need to increase our alliances if we are to stand on our own. It’s that, or the Lycan Clan dies trying. Would you rather the Greeneports send Ezra’s head back?”

“Don’t speak to me of our children dying,” Celestina hissed. “I cannot bear it.”

“I love our children as much as you do, Tina.” _That is a jape if I’ve ever heard one._ “When the time comes to mount the attack that will rescue Ezra, I will be in the frontlines.”

“Who will accompany you?”

“Marque Endsel insists on coming.” Theron cracked his neck. “Your father will want to come, most like, but I’ll find a way to dissuade him. He was a fine warrior in his prime, but his fighting days are now behind him. And I have a number of Lycan-sworn soldiers that I trust to storm Oceanfall. It’s only a matter of navigating the damned sea.”

“I will go,” Celestina said sharply.

Theron did not hesitate. “No.”

“ _Yes._ ” She stood. “You brought Jericho Wolfheart here, and so you shall deal with him. My father will ride back for Moonstone with Viscardi and Luna if I request it. _I_ will collect Ezra.”

They engaged in a silent battle of wills. Celestina injected the fierceness of a mother into her glare, holding her ground. Theron stared back, equally unwilling to give way.

“Mother?”

Their battle ended in a draw as Luna poked her head into the room. Her braids flopped over her shoulder, messy and quickly-done. She was Shifted, much to Celestina’s chagrin.

“We’ll discuss this later,” Theron said. He walked out of the door, stopping briefly to rub Luna’s fluffy brown ears. “Stop that, elsewise _I’ll_ never hear the end of it from your mother.”

Luna padded to Celestina’s side. Her eyes were wide and curious.

Celestina lightly pinched her ears. “I ought to stuff these with snow.”

Luna Shifted to her normal state, pouting. “Will Ezra be alright?” she asked.

“Why do you ask?”

“I heard all of you talking about him.”

Celestina exhaled. “You mustn’t eavesdrop, Luna.”

“It’s not my fault that everyone is loud. I tried covering my ears, once, but I could still hear everything.” She kicked her feet. “Well? Will Ezra come back?”

Celestina forced a smile. “Of course. The wolves will be back in the Tower soon.” _Except we won’t, scattered as we are, and Scarwood Hold is not Beowulf Tower._

“That’s good,” Luna nodded. “Viscardi says he’s to wed the Wolfheart man. Will I be wed, too?” She placed her hands on her hips. “I don’t want to get married yet. I promised Esme that we’d explore Sanguis together when we’re older, but I can’t do it if I’m stuck as someone’s wife. The beaches have black sand, she tells me. Corvus can come, too, if he wants, but I don’t think that he likes people very much. Mayhap if I bring a bird, he’ll agree to it. I’ll need to catch a pigeon first. Then there’s Lucien and the blue girl Esme wrote to me about.”

 _Dear gods,_ Celestina mused. _What am I to make of that?_

“All in due time, dear. Why don’t you go practice your stitches?” Celestina said. Luna wrinkled her nose at that. “Your arrows, then.” Luna grinned and trotted away. “Not in the yard!”

“I wasn’t!” Luna called.

Celestina huffed. How she missed being a girl again. She’d been concerned with only the straightness of her stitches or the preciseness of her curtsies, and managing a household had simply been a game of dolls played with Josephine and Circe.

 _Some air will do me good,_ Celestina sighed, making her way outside. _The gardens look quite lovely in summer. And once everything is in place,_ she glimpsed a woman cutting a sharp path through the hallway, _I will go and save my son._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Orion's chapter 'The Crossing' hits different now, huh? 😏


	47. White Wolves, Black Towers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My world has gone dark without your light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, the second part! A decent chunk of this one takes place at the same time as the previous chapter, so keep that in mind as you're reading.

Sakura Wolff  
Westedge, 1 Cardinal

***

The woman was back again. 

Sakura had been watching her. Today, she followed her.

The woman paused every now and then, nervously checking her surroundings. Sakura hid behind a wall, tracking her movements. She’d had her morning bath not long ago, and she hoped that the sweet fragrances would not reveal her location. It did not seem to trouble the woman, as she kept inspecting each open door.

 _Who are you?_ Sakura wondered. She stepped forward, pretending that this was a game of hide-and-seek with her younger siblings. _What are you searching for?_

The woman had appeared more than once, always cutting a skittish path before retreating at the slightest sound. She never seemed to find what it is that demanded she be near the bedchambers, however, and so Sakura had eventually taken note of her continued presence.

“Where…?” the woman muttered.

Sakura Shifted, momentarily wavering at the increased stimulation. She pricked her brown ears in the woman’s direction, grasping for any more whispered words. None came, and so she returned to her proper state and kept moving.

A brush of shoes against stone left Sakura cringing. She stopped and prayed to Remus that the woman had not heard, sighing in relief when there was no response. She realized why soon enough, as a familiar voice had joined the fray.

“Mayhap I could be of assistance,” came Lady Celestina’s dulcet tones.

“It’s fine, my lady.” The woman sounded shaky.

There was a scramble of feet. Sakura had to dip into an alcove lest she be seen during the woman’s sudden retreat.

“…begging your pardons.” Sakura covered her mouth with her hands. “Thank you … having me. I … will be leaving over the morrow...”

The hammering of her heart drowned out the rest. Sakura was only bold enough to come out when she heard no further noise, deflating at the empty hallway. Lady Celestina had disappeared _,_ as had the woman. Sakura began padding to her chambers, disappointed.

Her thoughts turned to the slip of paper that she’d stuffed underneath her pillow.

_‘We shall take what they owe, Your Majesty.’_

Sakura had read it over and over since receiving it, attempting to decipher its meaning. The handwriting was unknown to her. She’d studied every swoop and arch long into the night, nearly shredding the paper in frustration with each failed placement, and yet Sakura had no clues as to who would write such a thing.

 _Is Lord Lycan testing me? Did he - or one of his people - write this note?_ She grew nervous. _Are they waiting to see how long it takes me to reveal this secrecy?_

Sakura looked around, expecting the Governor to appear with the paper in hand and vindication in his eyes. He’d been beyond cross after she’d left Scarwood Hold with Luna. Only Lady Lorelei’s intervention on their behalf had calmed his fury. Sakura wasn’t sure if he was the type to resort to trickery to check her loyalty, but she did not want to make any wrong moves.

 _Lorelei isn’t here._ Sakura licked her lips. _There is no one to defend me if I fall into some trap._ She recited the message again. _Still, the wording is odd. There is a chance that this has nothing to do with Lord Lycan._

How would she even go about finding the writer? It was not as if she could ask any of the servants if they know the handwriting. One read, and they’d run scampering to report her.

“H-hello!”

Sakura was pulled from her wandering thoughts at the urgency in the whisper. She studied the area, listening for the direction that the sound came from. “Who is there?”

The woman emerged from behind a pillar, ringlets of brown hair falling into hazel eyes. Her hair was arranged in a style that suggested that she was from the northern Annex, and her furs were thick to match.

“You’re Sakura Wolff, yes?” Small hands fidgeted. “My name is Alysanna Mooreshield.”

Sakura treaded carefully. The Mooreshields had arrived with the Wolfhearts after ceasing their rebellion and abandoning her clan for the Lycans. She knew little of them personally, save Vincent Wolfheart and a number of Mooreshield elders that had been close with her grandfather, and this Alysanna woman was a stranger to her. Now that they had officially declared for the Lycans, Sakura had no reason to trust her.

“Hello, Lady Alysanna,” Sakura said, curtsying. She held herself back from demanding to know what it was that kept bringing Alysanna to this place. 

“Is there somewhere that we might speak alone?”

 _Be careful._ Sakura listened for other people before nodding and leading Alysanna to her chambers. _You don’t know her intentions. Lord Lycan told you to stay away from the newcomers, and it would not surprise me if she scuffles off to tell him that you disobeyed._

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Relief emanated from Alysanna.

_We shall take what they owe, Your Majesty._

Sakura halted. She regarded Alysanna with anxious curiosity, shutting the door softly. Her room was small, but the walls were strong and would not carry sound too easily. There would not be any maids going about the place for a while yet, either.

 _We shall take what they owe, Your Majesty._ Sakura pursued her lips. _Could Alysanna have been the one to write it?_ She envisioned the scrawl, realizing that it was feminine enough to have come from a woman’s hand. _Messy, but feminine. Written in some haste._

“Are you here to take anything?” Sakura asked, heart pounding.

“What?” Her spirits dropped at Alysanna’s confusion, rising when hazel eyes widened a second later. “Oh, yes! We will, ah, take what they owe.” She knelt low to the ground. “Forgive me for the manner in which I’ve approached you, Your Majesty. The Lycans are watchful, and … this is the only chance I have left to speak with you.”

Sakura inhaled. “Why are you kneeling? Have I grown fangs all of a sudden?” She helped Alysanna to her feet. “I’m only a lady, if that. I’m no majesty.”

“Not yet.” Alysanna stood. “They … they have a plan.” Her voice lowered. “Your grandfather was the Sovereign of Lunae Lumen, and your father would have been next after him. P-prince Julius is all the way in the Ironhill, too far to reach in time, and so you’re the next Sovereign.”

Sakura felt as if a horse had kicked her. She broke the tumbling sentences apart, picking the least concerning one. “Who are _they?_ ”

“ _Us._ ” Alysanna’s lips trembled. “The Wolff loyalists. Mooreshield, Wolfheart, Greeneport, and many of our bannerman. We-”

“Where’s your husband?” Sakura and Alysanna both stiffened at the sound of Luna’s passing voice. Her room’s walls were strong, but the two youngest Lycans were loud enough for it to make no matter. “The one with the sword?”

“He’s not my fucking husband.” The sourness was no doubt Viscardi’s. “Not for years. _Not ever._ Stop calling him that before I clout you. I’ve half a mind to ram that sword through his belly. I _will,_ I swear it, if he kisses my hand again.”

“You don’t know how to use a sword, but I suppose your husband will teach you.” There was a scuffle, followed by a squeak from Luna. “I’m telling mother.”

“Do it, and I’ll …”

Sakura released a breath when the Lycan siblings were out of earshot.

“We have to get you out of here, Your Majesty.” If possible, Alysanna became more agitated. Sakura likened her to a frightened horse. “My carriage is covered, so as to protect from the elements. There is a compartment below that can fit someone of your stature. Should we time it just right, I can slip you inside when I ride for Morhammer. You’ll be free.”

 _Freedom?_ Sakura’s eyes widened. She considered a life outside of Scarwood Hold, far from the watchful eye of Theron Lycan. If Alysanna was to be believed, she had allies that were willing to host her in Morhammer. She’d no longer limp about a castle, hoping that no one would take notice of her. She’d be … free.

_And what will happen to my family if I leave?_

Sakura shook her head. “That won’t work. The guards check your carriages regularly. They’d find a stowaway in a heartbeat.” She squashed the hope in her chest. “Even if we were to beguile them, _someone_ would notice my absence. They’d have dogs scenting the Adamantine Trail in a matter of hours, and Lord Lycan will suspect either your party or the Wolfhearts’.”

Alysanna crumbled. “Can you not escape, then? Find some passage to crawl out of?” She patted the walls. “The Lycans must have gotten in somehow. We can use it to get you out, and the guards will find nothing even if they tore our carriages apart.”

“I’m not sure.”

Sakura had rarely explored the underbelly of the castle. The dungeons were unpleasant, and her first _real_ experience with them had been during the Sack of Scarwood Hold. She’d been barred from them upon her release, but a majority of her days since then had been spent in the gardens or in her assigned quarters.

“Mayhap the gardens,” Alysanna continued. “The trees are tall, and I saw you climbing one. Some of them can get you past the walls if you go high enough.”

“Then how will I get down? Surely not by jumping. If it were winter, I may have considered it in the hopes that I’d land on a snowbank. It’s summer, though, and I’m more likely to split my head open. None of these ideas will work.” Sakura hesitated when Alysanna flinched. “My apologies. I did not mean to speak so cruelly.”

“You are the Sovereign. You may speak to me how you wish, if it please you.”

“It does not please me to be cruel.” Sakura touched her shoulder. “You mentioned the Wolfhearts. Where is Lord Jericho? Perchance he knows something that can help.”

 _The Wolfhearts are ancient cousins of the Wolffs. Our blood is theirs. There is no clan whose loyalty is truer._ Anticipation blossomed in Sakura’s chest. _Lord Jericho is a man grown, and he has fought in the war for many years. He’ll know what to do._

Alysanna sucked her teeth. “The guards watch _him_ twice as much as they watch me.” She worried her dress. “I was the only one deemed capable of speaking with you. We are of an age, and it would not arouse suspicion should I pretend that we were old friends. I’ve been trying to reach you, but all my attempts prior to this one failed.”

_So, that is why you fled after slipping me the note._

Sakura paced her room. Shadows danced on the floor as the sun rose. Alysanna watched Sakura’s pacing, her hands clasped together over her chest.

“You said this was your last chance,” Sakura remarked, after her legs began to ache. “Do you know when you will depart?”

“Over the morrow. We will set a course north on the Adamantine, but I know little of navigation. Had I a map, I may have drawn it.”

“There’s no need.” Sakura placed a smile on her face. “You have my thanks, Lady Alysanna, for informing me of the clans still loyal to mine. You are very brave. Be that as it may, I shan’t endanger you,” _or my family_ , “by running from the Lycans. In the future, maybe, when things are less-”

“There is no better time than now!” Alysanna quietened at Sakura’s insistence. “The Lycans have had their attentions held by the Greeneports, and it will continue to be so while they concentrate on Lord Lycan’s son. With all their eyes trained south, it would be a simple thing to sneak you north.”

“Regardless, they are not the only ones that watch me.”

Sakura checked for Rhys, feeling a fool. She was alone - as far as anyone knew - in her chambers, and Rhys had too much honour to peek in on a girl in her quarters.

Alysanna made further attempts to persuade Sakura, but all the plans were dismissed as unfeasible. Even if they took Sakura out of the castle, they did not award her enough distance before she’d be caught and dragged back. Sakura feared the consequences of a _true_ escape; if Theron had been incensed over an accident, there was no telling what he would do should she purposefully flee and be unsuccessful.

“What am I to tell the others?” Alysanna asked despairingly. “Should we leave without you, there is no certainty that we can return. All our plans will be for naught.”

“Do not worry about me.” Sakura heard footsteps, and she knew that the maids would now be combing through the bedchambers for laundry. “You should go, elsewise you’ll be spotted. I will handle myself.” Alysanna did not move. “ _Go._ That … that is a command.”

Alysanna idled by the door. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

Sakura waited for there to be some distance between them. She exited her quarters not long after, half-expecting the Lycan household to line up around her door and demand an explanation for her ‘visitor’. 

None came, as it was, and so Sakura vacated the premises with some trepidation.

She grabbed her basket and set out to look for dandelions in the garden, ruminating on the conversation. Her eyes noted the trees that grew closer to the walls, her mind debating the effectiveness of climbing them. She’d done so without being noticed by guards when she’d rescued Luna’s arrows, but the tree had been of a modest size. Any taller, and she would have stuck out like an apple in a field of raspberries.

 _Any taller,_ Sakura frowned at how the highest trees thinned out the farther one went from the ground, _and I’m more likely to fall than effectively scale the castle’s walls. I’ve never fallen, but I’ve also never gone that far up. I doubt Theron Lycan would be willing to catch me._

Celestina Lycan was in the garden when Sakura entered the shaded canopy.

The Lady sat on a low bench, her hands moving rhythmically as she sewed. A gray cloak lay across her lap, lined with shades of blue and black. The fabric was thin, but Sakura could see the traces of expert handiwork.

“Good morning, my lady,” Sakura said, curtsying.

Celestina jumped, pricking herself on the needle. “Sakura. You scared me. I did not hear you approach.” She sucked on her finger. “I must be getting old myself.”

“You’re not old."

“The odd gray hair would beg to differ.”

“A sign of wisdom.” Sakura plucked a dandelion and dropped it into her basket. “May I ask what brings you here?”

Celestina gestured to the foliage. “Celestial Abbey, the castle that I grew up in, had a garden like this. I was never one for the outdoors, but I desired fresh air. It shocks me that _all_ of my children love them so. That must be the Lycan blood.”

“Southerners are different,” Sakura replied, feeling a sort of kinship with her liege. “I visited Moonstone, once, when the war was not so chaotic. It’s a beautiful city. My father purchased a wooden sled, and we slid down the hills until our fingers nearly froze from paddling through the snow. I miss it, sometimes.”

“As do I.”

Celestina’s smile was tight as she began rethreading the needle. Sakura noticed that she faced some difficulty with the task. Celestina’s eyebrows creased when the thread refused to enter.

“Let me,” Sakura offered. She set her basket aside and held her hands out.

Celestina paused before relinquishing the needle and thread. Sakura fixed it as she’d been taught, tying the ends to prevent it from loosening.

“Thank you, dear,” Celestina said, resuming.

“What are you sewing? A new gown?”

“No, dear. A wedding cloak.” Celestina smoothed out the fabric. “It’s part of gray-wolf culture to present one’s partner with a cloak at weddings. It’s old-fashioned, but sweet. Theron did it for me, and Lorelei for Everett. Ezra planned to do the same for Lady Blair Lupine. We had a deal, Ezra and I. I’d stitch the lining, and he’d hunt a great beast for the fur. Something nice and thick, to keep Blair warm during cold winters. The finer the material, the better the cloak.” Celestina sighed. “A long-lasting cloak makes for a good marriage.”

Sakura sat beside her, watching. “My father did something similar for my mother. He made her a scarf using rare silks from Amaterasu, to remind her of her home.”

“I imagine that it was not easy to acquire.”

Sakura laughed. “ _I_ imagine that the merchant sold him ordinary fabric and called it foreign. When asked _which_ country it was from, they balked. Father gave it to mother anyway, and joked that she could pick the country.”

Celestina turned to a corner of the cloak, a weak smile at her lips.

“How have things been with you, my lady?” Sakura inquired, the sight of Celestina with tears streaming down her face still fresh in her mind.

“The stewards tell me that the granaries are near-bursting, and this summer’s harvest is set to be a proper one now that we’re not expending resources on fighting. The peace shall do the region good, it seems.”

“Yes,” Sakura said, “but how have _you_ been?”

Celestina stopped her sewing. Her eyes met Sakura, the golden irises shining clear. “Me? Oh, I don’t know.” The cloak crumpled as she balled her fists. “I’ve been managing. I’m sure word has reached you about my son Ezra.”

Sakura placed her hands in her lap. “He’s been taken captive by the Greeneports.”

Celestina breathed in deeply. “When I gave birth to Luna, I presented her to her siblings. I asked if I should keep her, as a jest. Viscardi said no, that rascal. He couldn’t stand not being the baby anymore. But Ezra,” her eyes grew distant, “Ezra was so excited to have another little sibling. He held Luna so carefully, you’d think she was the full moon made mortal. He’s always been a caring boy, and he grew into a man with a soft spot for those weaker than him.” She blinked, wiping her eyes. “He must be so afraid.”

_Traitors. Thieves. Usurpers._

_Take what they owe._

“My mother never kept Remus,” Sakura said, ignoring her grandfather’s snarls, “or any of the Eurydicean gods. In her faith, they burn special-shaped sticks, and they pray to their ancestors to watch over the family. She taught my siblings and I a few of the words, as well as the correct procedure.” She stared at her shoes, to give Celestina a moment to collect herself. “I’ll do that for Lord Ezra, too, so that the gods can keep him safe.”

The water from the nearby pond lapped gently. Birds sang, filling the air with the music of nature. Smoke poured from the fireplaces scattered about the Hold, as well as from the distant settlements of Westedge. The scent of the flowers was pleasing.

“Thank you.” Celestina’s quiet response was nearly drowned in the ambience. “Your mother raised a wonderful girl.”

“Optimism helps, too.” Sakura blushed. “It makes each day easier. Your son will be back in Beowulf Tower before you know it, and he’ll make the finest cloak in all of Lunares. You’ll see.” She kicked her feet. “For me, I want to believe that the Viper will have mercy on my father; that your son will teach him to be kinder to our people. You’re a good woman, Lady Celestina, and I’m sure Potentate Quill inherited that. And maybe,” her voice was wishful, “the Sovereign will be softer than he was with my grandfather, and I can visit my father.”

The needle fell from Celestina’s hand. Sakura picked it up and offered it to its owner, her smile vanishing at Celestina’s expression.

“Is something wrong?” Sakura looked behind her to make sure that all was well.

Celestina rose slowly. “Did Theron not tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“Oh, Sakura.” Celestina linked her fingers. “Your father is gone, dear.”

“Gone?” Sakura echoed. Her lips refused to form the words. “ _Gone?_ He’s… _”_

“We received word from the Ironhill soon after it happened.” Celestina seated herself once more, taking Sakura’s hand. “I’m sorry, Sakura. It is a horrible thing to lose a parent so young.”

 _He’s gone._ She blinked, rendered incomprehensive from the shock. _He’s gone._

“Was he executed?” Sakura asked. She was glad for the lack of emotion in her voice, for it hid the shattering of her heart. Celestina was reticent. “I wish to know. I thought that … that he might be spared. He never wanted to fight in the war, truly.”

“I don’t doubt that.” Celestina combed her fingers through Sakura’s hair. The touch would have been comforting on any other day, but Sakura did not want to feel it. She did not want to _feel_ anything. She just wanted to disappear. “It is a heavy matter. Perhaps…”

“Tell me. _Please._ How did they execute him? _”_

“He was not executed.” A look akin to regret marred Celestina’s face. “They say he took his life before a trial could be conducted. He was found in his cell.”

“Was no one watching him?” Sakura’s hands shook. She did not stop them. “A guard or gaoler? Surely such an important prisoner wouldn’t have been left to their own devices. How…”

“I don’t know, sweetling. I only know this.” Celestina cradled Sakura’s face. “The Annex thought your father weak-”

_What will they say, when they learn of this?_

“-but he had a _strength_ that many of us will never possess. What people think is not always the truth.” Celestina’s thumb wiped the tears that accumulated at the edge of Sakura’s eyes. “They called him weak and a coward for relinquishing Homestead, but he saved countless lives that day. He saved _the Annex_ that day. Your father understood mercy and love, and I _know_ that he never stopped loving you despite his anguish.”

In the distance, Sakura could see the Lycan banners blowing from where they hung along Scarwood Hold’s structures. The black towers sat proudly where there’d once been white wolves, but the sigils blurred together as her eyes watered.

 _White wolves, black towers,_ Sakura thought bitterly. _What does it matter? They’re all just symbols. This … this is real._

Her father was gone.

He’d never bring her a flower again, or sit with Dionysia on the balcony as Sakura and her siblings ran about the yard, or tell her of the journeys they’d take around the world after the war’s end. There was no more praying for Remus’ moonlight to guide him in the Ironhill, no more fervent whispers to the Lunaean ancestors that her clan would be whole.

Sakura stood, feeling as if her legs were made of lead. “Thank you for informing me, my lady.”

She wandered away for several feet, keeping her head high.

Her composure broke as she reached a gnarled one - her tree, the one that had grown bent over the years, the one her father stood below as she climbed so that he could catch her if she lost her footing - and she tumbled into the white flowers that had bloomed along its base. Her claws extended as she fell, and the tree wept red as its sap bled out.

Sakura screamed.

Tears poured down her cheeks and damped the earth. Her claws cut deep grooves in the soil as she curled in on herself, her body shaking. Strands of brown hair brushed into her eyes or billowed out over her frame, but Sakura could not bring herself to care.

_He’s gone._

_When will it end?_ Sakura wondered, breathing in a lungful of earth-tinged air. _Who is next? My mother? Me?_ She screamed again, choking on the sickly-sweet scent of the flowers.

“Sakura.” Lady Celestina’s face appeared before her, the sunlight shining around her. “Come with me. Let us go inside.”

 _Can’t you see?_ Sakura wanted to shout, but all that came out was a choked sob. _He’s gone and he’s never coming back and it’s_ real. _Remus didn’t listen._

Celestina may as well have carried her for how useless Sakura’s legs were. She was a ghost in Scarwood Hold, floating wherever she was pushed.

 _Remus loves to play these games with us._ People passed by in a blur. _I prayed for my father to avoid execution, and I suppose that that is what happened._

Her father had not been executed, but he’d died all the same.

_I should have prayed harder._

_You shouldn’t have bothered at all,_ a fiercer part of her whispered. 

The Lady of Scarwood Hold led them up the winding stairs to the higher levels, shielding Sakura from curious eyes and confused questions. She took them to Sakura’s quarters - no, they passed them. They went up and up, and Sakura recognized the door to the room that had once been her father’s. Her knees buckled, but still they kept walking.

Twin hearths greeted them as they pushed past the ornate doors at the end of the hall. Sakura had never been brave enough to enter the space without permission, and she’d been wary each time she was summoned to this solar.

 _Grandfather’s room._ Sakura let herself be seated before the fireplaces, shedding a tear for Silas Wolff as well. He may never have loved her, but she _had_ loved him. _Father’s with him now._

A blanket was draped across Sakura’s shoulders. She shivered despite the warm summer air, her hands tightening around the fabric. Celestina procured a soft handkerchief and cleaned the dust and tears from Sakura’s face, her face never betraying her thoughts. Her eyes were kind, and Sakura wished that she would look at anything but her.

“Is there something I can do that will ease you, Sakura?” Celestina asked, voice low.

“Can you bring back my father?” Sakura snapped, surprised at her anger. “Can you send me back in time, so that I can prevent your _husband_ from turning him over to the Sovereign?”

Celestina flinched.

Sakura chided herself. “I’m sorry, my lady. That was improper. I will accept whichever punishment you see fit for my rudeness.” 

“It would be monstrous to punish a girl for mourning her father.” Celestina folded the soiled handkerchief and set it aside. “I cannot bring Lord Julius back, and I cannot undo what my husband has done.”

 _Then what good are you?_ Sakura held her tongue. _He’s gone, and I’ll never see him again._ More tears streamed down, ruining the work Celestina had done in cleaning her face. _The last time we saw each other, I watched them drag him away in chains._

“There is little I can do,” Celestina said. “But if there is anything you want that is within my power to grant, you shall have it. I swear it on my honour as a parent, and as a Lycan.”

 _What honour does your clan have?_ Sakura gave a shaky nod. _Your husband entered my family’s castle, supped on our bread and drank our mead, and then locked us all up like dogs. And when your new master demanded it, you sent us to our deaths._

_Traitors. Thieves. Usurpers._

Sakura shrugged the blanket off and stood beside the window, staring at Westedge but not seeing it. She was reminded of herself a year ago, on that fine summer’s day. She’d looked out of a window much like this one, counting the gathered people and identifying their allegiances based on their colours. Would that she’d known the secrets they’d hid behind friendly smiles, or the blood that would have been spilled by their sheathed swords.

_None of this would have happened, if not for that fine summer’s day._

“Sakura?” Celestina tried.

A Lycan banner hung on the wall between the twin hearths, identical to the ones outside. Sakura had been painfully aware of their presence when Theron had released her from the dungeons, but she’d grown complacent after months of comfortable captivity. They’d scarcely registered to her anymore, but now they were all that she could see.

For the first time since that fine summer’s day, Sakura wished that they would _burn._

“Lady Celestina,” Sakura said, her voice hollow. “I have a request.”

“Yes, dear?” Celestina perked up, her smile wan but encouraging.

“I want to visit my family.”

Celestina’s smile dropped. “That will be … difficult.”

“Why? You told me that they’d been moved to a holdfast - one that you chose.” She sucked in a breath, a knife piercing her heart. “Was that a lie to spare me? Are _they_ gone as well?”

“No. I spoke true. They are safe, and their every need is met. It’s just … Theron will not want you leaving Scarwood Hold at a time like this.”

“You said that you would do what you could to ease me,” Sakura spat. “You’re the Lady of Scarwood Hold.” _A lie. That should be my mother’s title, and mine after her._ “Surely you can arrange for me to visit the only family that I have left.”

Celestina was hesitant.

“My apologies. It was too much to ask.” Sakura stepped away from the window. “I am your husband’s ward, not yours, but I will not burden him with my troubles. I am grateful for the comforts that you’ve given me.” Her anger faded into sorrow. “I need to be alone, my lady. I ask your leave to go.”

“Wait.” Celestina rummaged through a desk, pulling out several sheets of paper and a pen. “I shall draft the documents that will grant you access to the holdfast, and anyone that stops you will know that it was on your liege’s orders.” Celestina sighed and pushed her hair from her face. “Would that I could do more, Sakura. A few days are all that I can spare.”

_A few days are all that Lord Lycan will allow._

“You’ll travel with a retinue of approved members of our household, and they will accompany you on your return.” Celestina began writing fervently. “Do not worry about the details. Take this time to mourn for your father.”

“Thank you,” Sakura said, her voice breaking with relief. She made her way towards the door, stopping with her fingers short of the handle. “You’re a good woman, Lady Celestina.” _Far better than the likes of your husband._ “I did not expect you to be so kind.”

Celestina smiled, lovely despite the exhaustion on her features. “It is a poor world we live in, where kindness is some special thing.” She grew quiet. “Your father would be proud of you, Sakura. I know it seems like empty words, but-”

“Thank you,” Sakura repeated, her throat tight. “May I leave?”

“You may. Take care of yourself, dear.” The scratch of pen against paper. “I’m sure your mother has missed you. Lady Dionysia will be glad to have all of her children beside her again.”

Sakura all but ran to her quarters, refusing to glance at the door that had once led to her father’s chambers. She entered her room and threw herself on the bed, crying until she was certain that no more tears would flow. Then, she cried anew.

Her head hurt when the tears dried at last, her nose was stuffed, and her pillow was a mess. Sakura closed her eyes and ignored the dampness, drifting into uneasy sleep to rid herself of the agony in her body.

Sakura slept. She slept, and she dreamt.

She dreamt of a crying tree with dark red sap running down its trunk. She touched the bark, drawn to its pain, but the resulting stickiness was not in line with sap.

It was blood.

A wolf approached her then, eyes shut and gait uneven. Blood dripped from its mouth, a mix of reds and blacks and browns. It ambled towards her, a great beast of matted fur, and collapsed at her feet. Calmness washed over Sakura, and she was not afraid. She sank to the floor with it, coursing her hands through the thick fur. Somehow, she knew that it was dying.

Sakura did not know what to do, and so she sang.

_“A heart as cold as ice_

_Beats blue against the snow_

_Fair Helen lived with ghosts_

_Of which we’d never know."_

The wolf sighed and placed its head in her lap, its body going limp. It opened its eyes slowly, and Sakura instinctively expected them to be yellow. Instead, they were as red as the blood that dripped from its mouth. They closed a final time, its heartbeat fading when the song ended.

Sakura woke when the crescent moon was high in the sky. She sat in the gardens afterwards, not noticing the chill in the air. The flowers were her comfort, for she drew strength from them.

_The flowers that my mother planted, and the trees where my father would wait to catch me if I fell. They are their legacy, no matter which banner flies over Scarwood Hold._

This time, it was Sakura who found Alysanna.

A servant carried Alysanna’s travelling cases to her carriage. The Mooreshield thanked them politely. Sakura tiptoed forward and took Alysanna by the arm when the servant entered the castle to collect more. Alysanna’s squeak was blocked by Sakura’s hand.

“It’s me,” Sakura whispered.

“Mmph- Your Majesty?”

“Just Sakura. I am not a Sovereign. Not so long as I am here. But,” Sakura checked to make sure that the servant had not returned, “I know a way to leave without inciting the Lycans’ ire.”

Alysanna’s hazel eyes widened. Sakura explained her plan, leaving out the details that _hurt._

Lady Celestina had granted her permission to visit her mother in a holdfast owned by the Lycans. Sakura would play innocent until a chance sprung up, and then she would evade her minders. If Remus was kind - _Remus didn’t listen. Remus didn’t listen_ \- she’d be able to meet Alysanna’s retinue on their path north to Morhammer.

“All you need to do,” Sakura finished, “is delay your course. This will give me time to catch up.”

“I’ll try,” Alysanna said. “but the Adamantine can be unpredictable. Are you sure that it is a good idea for you to travel alone? There is no telling when or _if_ we will meet.”

_Thieves. Usurpers. Traitors._

_Take what they owe._

Sakura steeled herself. “Theron Lycan stole everything from me. My family, my home, my region.” _Her father’s quiet laughter, and his gentle voice. The flowers he would bring her._ “There’s not going to be any _mercy_ when he grows tired of keeping me around _._ I need to take what he owes, and I need to take it _now_. I’ve no other choice.”


	48. Fuel to the Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the snakes and the people they bite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The way this chapter didn’t want to be written. Ayden is normally one of the easiest POVs for me but he's been acting up lately 😭
> 
> CW: mild violence

Ayden Caedis  
Homestead, 1 Cardinal

***

Hyperion’s face contorted, severer than the frown he oft wore. “Your Majesty, you didn’t e-”

“No.” Ayden repeated his answer flatly, remaining perched on the staircase. 

Hyperion bristled. “Lord Sylph is planning his retreat to Briar as we speak. You of all people would know how difficult it is to raise young heirs. Doubtless he has intentions to one day resume his post, but children are unpredictable and Lady Fiona grows older.” He bunched his fists. “The realm will need a more stable Suzerain. I don’t understand why it can’t be _me._ ”

“I never said you could not hold the office. I simply said that you were not the best choice.”

“ _Why?_ ” There was a brief flash of fangs. “I’ve been the Lord of Dragonfyre Keep since I was a boy. Starkhall flourished under my care. In addition, I’ve served Eurydice as the Master of Defence for _years._ There is no one in the kingdom that can question my credentials.”

“You _are_ an excellent Master of Defence.” Ayden flipped Legionnaire over and began cleaning the other side, its black steel glimmering in the light. “Too good, in fact.”

Dadia’s Rest buzzed with activity as its inhabitants went about their day. Maids curtsied to them as they passed, making comments on the weather or launching into folksy tales. The friendliness of the Stepen people jarred Ayden each time he visited the plainest of the great Eurydicean castles. It was certainly different from the reserved politeness of the Ironhill.

“I am more than qualified to act as Suzerain in the absence of Lord Sylph. The answer should be obvious. I am _willing_ to fill the role.”

Ayden sighed.

It was not uncommon for Hyperion to survey the important Garrison bases. The man had mentioned an interest in the Annex, and his plan to travel that far west had prompted Ayden to task him with delivering the letter. Ayden had been surprised to see a head of long blond hair within Dadia’s Rest, but he’d rationalized Hyperion’s presence as him resting in Homestead or paying a visit to the nearby Forts Stallion and Friesian. As it was, he’d been wrong.

“My rejection is not a critique of your skills.” Ayden set the cloth he’d been using aside. “Your talents as a Master are precisely why I do not wish to have you as a Suzerain. Forgive my bluntness, but you would excel less in the latter. You are well suited for your station.”

Hyperion’s face relaxed into neutrality. “You think I’d be so terrible of a Suzerain?”

“I think you’d make a better Master than Suzerain.” Ayden sheathed Legionnaire and made his way to the training grounds, taking the path Ramsay Skyreach had shown him. “We can reopen this matter when we are both back in the Ironhill.”

“Very well, Your Majesty.” Sullenness radiated off of Hyperion.

 _All I need of you right now is to give Sakura Wolff the thrice-damned letter._ Ayden cast Julius Wolff’s shaky scrawl from his mind. _I’ve half a mind to just burn it and watch the embers float away. There are few who know of its existence, and one of them is dead._

He quelled the discomfort in his chest, fishing for something to distract him.

“If it is an expansion of your duties you seek, then I can oblige.” Ayden paused by the door that led to the grounds. “It would be good to broaden our influence on other continents, and an overseas military shall be a good place to start. Are you familiar with the Edict of Dissolution?”

“Not as well as you, I’m sure,” Hyperion answered.

The Edict of Dissolution was an old one. The Caedises of the Gold Era were noted for their creation of the long-defunct Eurydicean Empire; one that had spanned from the shores of Orpheus to Sol and Prometheus and even parts of Boreas. At the height of its power, the Red Throne held dominion over a quarter of the world. And like all empires, it waned.

The death of the Gold Era was harsh, marked by the Gray Crash that heralded Eurydice’s downfall. Celestin Caedis, the Sovereign at the time, had been unwilling to rule over the empire while his home kingdom was in such a state. The edict was a masterful play. In one stroke, he relieved the Red Throne of its obligations towards its overseas colonies without relinquishing them from his grasp. Whoever sat the throne maintained the right to call themselves the supreme head of their subjects despite their diminished strength.

 _'In due time, perhaps, when Eurydice no longer bleeds, shall we be what my namesake forged with fire and gold’_ was written at the end of the edict and stamped with the sigil of the crown.

Sovereign Celestin’s plan did not come to fruition during his lifetime, nor did it for Jocelyn’s or Damien’s. Gray Waste followed Gray Crash and was itself succeeded by the Werewolf Insurgency, and Ayden had once thought that his reign would come and go as well.

_The last ruler to truly look outward was my mother._

“The edict was designed to be overturned,” Ayden said. “A temporary fix to the problems of the Gray Era. Yet, my predecessors were wrapped in more pressing concerns. I was, too, for a time. Now the war is over and I can begin rectifying the kingdom’s woeful state of isolation.”

Hyperion crossed his arms. “Lady Livingstone won’t like that. I suspect that many aspects would fall under her jurisdiction, as Master of Society.”

_Lady Livingstone is getting a throne for her son. She can deal with some inconvenience._

“I’m not ready to completely undue the edict,” Ayden clarified. “Orpheus sits at the centre of the world. It would be a simple thing to reclaim our old status as a global powerhouse. The empire shall be the foundation, but there are other countries that interest me - particularly those with higher vampire populations. Xingxi, Sinseong, Saereha. Izanagi and Izanami, too, have been close allies for centuries.”

“Eastern countries, all of those.” Hyperion was as observant as ever. “I’d assumed our recent … encounter with Tundra inspired this change.”

“Thorfinn had a part, I will admit, I’d give the credit to Lady Dionysia Wolff.”

The fates of Silas and Julius Wolff had been easy, as they were Eurydiceans subjected to Ayden’s will. Dionysia, however, was complicated. Ayden knew little and less about the Wolff matriarch, but he’d been learning. She was the daughter of an influential merchant from the east, one with close ties to the aristocracy of Izanami. Her foreign family’s connections could prove problematic in the event that she met a similar fate to her husband and father-in-law.

“I’m planning on writing the _edoiji_ of Izanami,” Aydens said, hesitating over the pronunciation of the title. “Gods willing, a ship can be arranged to chart her across the Eastern Channel. Her children, too, if I am to have any peace of mind. I’m willing to politically exile _all_ of them so long as they renounce their Eurydicean citizenship.”

_Imprisonment in Eurydice, or freedom in exile._

Ayden exited the castle, stepping out into the summer sun. He lifted an arm to shield himself, hissing slightly at the brightness. Hyperion seemed less perturbed, what with his mane of flowing hair. Ayden felt a flash of envy.

“Speaking of the Wolffs, Your Majesty,” Hyperion’s words were slow and deliberate. “News of Julius’ passing has been spreading to all who care to know.” The sleeves of his shirt were brushed out in a way that could be construed as idle vanity. “Why release the information now? He’s been dead for months.”

Ayden stiffened. “His death was recent.”

“Thorfinn didn’t…?” Hyperion trailed off at Ayden’s warning glare. “I see.”

“Leave it at that.” _For your own sake, and your sister’s._

Ayden gathered his hair, tying it back. Many of the strands were not quite long enough to stay in place, escaping and falling into his eyes. He hadn’t cut it since early spring. Ayden had been sorely tempted to shear the lengthening strands since he first realized he could fasten them together. The only thing that stopped him was Quill’s fondness for it, and the way he would rest on Ayden’s chest and twirl the hair in-between nimble fingers.

“This is irritating,” Ayden complained, battling the wisps. “How do you tolerate long hair? Mine is nowhere near your length, and I’m already overwhelmed.”

“My mother kept my hair long. It’s never been something I’ve had to tolerate _._ It’s been a part of me since I was a child,” Hyperion shrugged. “I suppose I could cut it to see what it’s like.”

“The palace would be in an uproar.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You’d break countless hearts,” Ayden teased as he made his way to where Ramsay Skyreach leaned. “Quill tells me that you’re popular in court.”

Hyperion groaned. “I can’t imagine why.”

Ramsay’s teeth flashed white in his ever-present smile, coiled hair bouncing as he waved. His weapon of choice rested on his hip - a standard longsword with an unadorned pommel. Masters-at-arms milled about, eager to watch them spar. Lady Melissa Skyreach was also present, beaming as her children toddled around in the verdant grass.

“Your Majesty,” Ramsay said, informal despite the title. “I thought you’d never show up.”

Ayden stepped into the arena. “I had unexpected matters to attend to. They are now settled.”

The first time Ayden met Ramsay had been at the climax of the Liberation of Homestead, when the previously deposed Governor of Stepes had stood grim-faced at the entrance of the city with blood on his sword and a slew of burning Insurgent flags at his back. He’d led Ayden to Dadia’s Rest - a tattered Skyreach banner had flown over the castle, the sound of the cloth reminiscent of snaps and growls - and the bodies littering the pavements would have registered less clearly in Ayden’s mind had Arion not nearly been one of them. The Mellow Sea had churned in the distance, red and frothy.

 _Our scouts said that a siege was needed before we could take the city,_ Arion had said, hands still clutching the wound on his belly and skin pallid with the unmistakeable signs of magic exhaustion. _What happened here?_

Ayden had stepped over the body of an Insurgent with his eyes trained westward - the fallen werewolf’s blood mixed with the red of the Insurgent banner that lay torn at their side - and he’d responded ‘ _what needed to be done.’_

Ramsay turned to Hyperion, grin widening. “I haven’t seen you since the royal wedding. Have you finally squirted out some children?”

Ayden snorted at the crassness, but Hyperion was not so amused. “I have not.”

“What are you waiting for? Mother above, you don’t have all Era!”

Lady Melissa approached them, smiling demurely. She clutched her son Helios to her chest, gently extracting the babe’s hands as he reached for her mousy brown hair. “Your Majesty, Lord Tydus. Good day to you both.”

“You look well, my lady.” Ayden bent, diminishing the considerable height he held over her so that he could face the child. “Hello, Helios. Do you still remember me? I gave you a peach the other day, but I can understand if it slipped your mind. May I, Lady Skyreach?”

“Of course, Your Majesty.”

Helios blinked large, gold-tinged brown eyes as he was given to Ayden. He cooed and stuck plump hands outward, babbling. Ayden turned to see who had the child so entranced, expecting it to be Ramsay, but he chuckled when he deduced that it was Hyperion.

“Helios has some words he’d like to exchange with you,” Ayden said, placing the babe in Hyperion’s arms before he could protest.

Helios promptly grabbed a fistful of blond hair, looking quite pleased with his catch. Hyperion mumbled under his breath, shifting Helios into a better position without yanking himself free.

Ramsay clapped Hyperion on the back. “You’re a natural. See how Helios smiled when he saw you? You could have this with your own son or daughter.”

“I raised the three hellions I call siblings,” Hyperion said drily, returning Helios to Melissa. “I’ve had my fill of childrearing.”

Ayden laughed at the pitiful wail Helios released. Melissa apologized and retreated to where she’d left her daughter with a handmaiden, attempting to calm the distraught boy with sweet whispers and shallow bounces. Little Diana stared at her twin brother with childlike indifference, too preoccupied with wobbling on her feet.

 _I remember when_ my _twins were that small,_ Ayden thought, feeling his age catch up to him. _I used to hold Lucien for hours. Now, he thrashes like a bat if I do. Arion had better enjoy Lazuli and the new babe while they’re still young._

Ayden could never stop watching the twins when they were new-borns. He’d visit their nursery whenever he wasn’t trapped in meetings or holding court atop the throne, and he’d just watch them fuss in their cribs. He’d given Selene his name and his sigil, but it scarcely compared to what she’d given him. _You won’t be like me,_ he’d once whispered to the twins after a feeding. _Your mother and I will both be here for you._ Red eyes had peered at him blearily, before Lucien’s cries woke Esme and earned Ayden a proper scolding from their nanny.

“Well, Your Majesty?” Ramsay drew his sword with a cocky smirk. “Shall we begin?”

Ayden unsheathed Legionnaire. “We shall.”

In a heartbeat, he crossed to Ramsay’s side and sent a maelstrom of attacks. Ramsay dodged a few but parried the rest, huffing with each swing. Ayden ducked and dived around him, itching to use his greater physique to his advantage but not wanting to end the session too quickly. The clang of metal against metal rang out in the yard, and the Skyreach household cheered each time Ramsay landed a successful blow or cringed when Ayden struck him. A sigh went round when Ramsay’s sword was sent flying from his hands.

“Not bad,” Ramsay panted, retrieving the item. “Though,” he grinned, “I can’t help but notice that you’re slower than when we last fought. Are you going soft on me?”

Ayden shook his hand out, tracing the scar on his palm. “I’m getting older. The days of being the Young Viper are nearly behind me.”

A moment later saw Ramsay resuming the fight. Ayden switched to more defensive routines, planting his feet firmly on the ground and using Legionnaire as a ‘shield’. He’d been a tad reedy as a boy - Damien was tall but not particularly muscular, and Ayden had imitated his father during his adolescence - but he’d filled out once he’d gotten a true taste of war. As such, it was a small thing to keep Ramsay at bay.

It wasn’t long before they were both sweating: Ramsay from exertion, and Ayden from the heat of the sun. Ramsay called a temporary cessation of the spar, downing water and whooping with the adrenaline of it all.

Ayden crossed swords with Ramsay a handful of times more, growing weary reach round but not quite receiving the stimulation he sought. Ramsay was not a poor swordsman by any means, but Ayden had years of experience on him and was a vampire besides.

 _Mayhap I can convince Hyperion to take up a sword._ Ayden blew a strand of hair onto his forehead. _I’d best end this soon, before my skin starts to burn._

“You seem rather tired, Your Majesty.”

Ayden glimpsed Quill leaning against the arena boundary. He travelled to his side, laying a chaste kiss on Quill’s lips. Quill deepened it for a moment, letting Ayden pull away with the thrilled but flustered smile that overcame him whenever their lips touched. Ayden would have gladly given him more, if not for the spectators.

Them, and Quill’s sister. 

“Lady Lorelei,” Ayden said, bowing. “I was not expecting you. Forgive my present state.”

Since arriving in Homestead, Quill had seemed determined to explore every inch of the city. Ayden had left him to his own devices, often asking him about his adventures whenever he returned. On a day that Ayden expected to be like the others, Quill had brought back a pair that he introduced as his sister and her husband. Ayden had spent the day being acquainted with his in-laws, strangely nervous in the wake of Lorelei’s calculating gaze.

Lorelei Lycan curtsied. “Quill insisted that I leave the inn that Everett and I are staying in and visit him.” She ruffled Quill’s hair, earning a glare. “I can’t say no to my baby brother.”

“We’re alike in that regard. I can scarcely deny him of late.”

Lorelei smiled, something sweet yet unreadable. Her eyes were reminiscent of Quills, though perhaps more sunflower yellow than gold. Her hair and complexion, too, mirrored her brother’s. Ayden caught traces of Theron Lycan from both of them. 

“Ayden,” Quill said, rocking on his feet. “I wish to join your council the next time it convenes.”

He cocked his head. “I was under the impression that you found them uninteresting. You attended one and then none afterwards.”

“I had a change of heart.”

“Very well.”

The deep barks of Crescent drew Ayden’s attention. The dog barrelled towards Hyperion, her fluffy tail wagging. Hyperion, for his part, was almost _affectionate._ It was a decidedly odd expression to see displayed by the dour man.

 _Why does she like Hyperion so much?_ Ayden wondered, narrowly avoiding a pout. When Quill was unconscious, he’d felt a connection to the distressed dog. Then she’d abandoned him at the first whiff of Hyperion before leaving _him_ for her true master. _Why doesn’t she like me?_

In truth, Ayden had grown wary of Crescent since she’d bared her teeth him. _I’d pay a thousand crowns to know what ailed Quill that night. Surely, it was not an ordinary nightmare._

“Your Majesty,” Ramsay called. “Have you energy for one more spar?” His smile dropped as he neared. “Your Grace. Lady Lycan.”

The greeting was icy, to say the least. Ayden glanced up at the entrance of another person, nodding to Everett - Lorelei’s husband. They exchanged pleasantries, and Ayden was painfully aware of the various shades of golden eyes on him.

 _They don’t trust me. Everett especially._ Ayden’s skin tingled. _I can understand._ He studied the man, noting the muscle on his arms and the sword at his hip. _He walks like one who has seen a battlefield. Everett has had enough time to nurse wounds and resentment towards the crown._

“I see that broadsword at your side,” Ayden said casually _._ “Are you any good with it?”

“It’s gotten me out of many an ambush.” Everett’s fingers danced across the pommel.

Ayden tapped Legionnaire on the ground. “Care to demonstrate?”

“As His Majesty commands.”

_My apologies, Ramsay. Werewolves are better matches against vampires than commonfolk are._

Everett stepped into the arena, shedding the light overcoat he wore. He rolled the sleeves of his shirt up, then secured the mid-length strands of his hair behind his ears. Ayden rolled his shoulders as he waited for Everett to prepare himself, bracing his muscles for another fight.

“How do I know when I’ve won?” Everett asked, unsheathing his silver sword.

“You’re awfully confident.” Ayden indicated the ends of the arena. “If I can push you over the barrier, I will claim victory. The same goes for you.” He got into a better position, more mindful of his stance now that he held no inherent physical advantage. “There are extra bragging rights if I disarm you.”

“I assume the same goes for me?”

Ayden smirked. “You’re a quick learner.”

He scarcely had time to brace himself before Everett was on him. Steel shrieked as they swung at each other, and Ayden’s blood rushed at the force behind Everett’s blows. The occasional tingle in his scarred hand was ignored as he raced to keep up, retaliating with equal strength each time Everett struck. _Clang, ring, clang, ring._

More people gathered, fascinated at the heated match. The only distraction Ayden allowed from the fierce volley was a half-second glance at Quill. That proved too much, and Ayden was soon blinking up at the clouds with a dull pain at his back.

“It’s been a while since anyone knocked me down,” Ayden said, rising. _Anyone non-magical._

Everett rubbed sweat from his brows. “I learned a trick or two during the war.”

“Are you alright, Your Majesty?” Lorelei called. Amusement coloured the question. “I’d hate it if my husband injured your royal person.”

“I’ve survived worse than disorientation, my lady.”

Ayden continued the duel, clutching Legionnaire’s hilt tightly and moving forward in a swift stabbing motion. Everett blocked him with the body of the broadsword, but it was not as neat as his previous attempts. Ayden’s eyes roved as he searched for potential weak points - _there, on his left leg. I’d wager a wartime injury that healed incorrectly -_ and directed his attacks to the opposite direction before feinting.

Everett was good, however. His steps faltered with each aborted movement, but he withstood Ayden’s assault well. Their builds were similar, too, making it difficult for Ayden to overwhelm him using superior musculature.

Claymore and broadsword sang with each thrust. Ayden had not heard music like this in years, so accustomed to the picture-perfect routines of the capital.

“Not bad,” Ayden said, falling back lest Everett unbalance him again. “You’re a dire-wolf, I take it. You fight like one.” _Hit hard and frequently, with little regard for tricks._

Black hair was slicked back on Everett’s head. “I wasn’t aware that you knew our ethnicities.”

“I’m married to a werewolf.” _And, I’ve fought enough in my lifetime to know the difference. Dire-wolves were oftentimes the most difficult to subdue._ “Is that so surprising?”

“I wasn’t aware that you’d care.”

“I’ve learned a thing or two.” Ayden danced out of his grasp at the nick of time, wiping a thin stream of blood from a thin cut beneath his eye. “I see why the Insurgents conquered so many territories during my father’s reign. Of course,” he struck and sneered as Everett’s sword went flying across the arena, “I won them all back eventually.”

“Did you? If I remember correctly, hiding behind Briar’s magic gave you a disproportionate advantage.” Everett raised clenched fists. “I don’t need a sword to beat you.”

Ayden gritted his teeth and tossed Legionnaire aside, listening to the clamour as it collided with the soil. His own fists were brought up, but this time Ayden would let Everett strike first. They circled each other, until Everett swung.

The earth shook as Ayden absorbed the impact, catching Everett’s fist in his palm. He pulled him forward with a slam to his back, inhaling when Everett twisted and dragged him down as well. Ayden rolled out of the unexpected manoeuvre, barely having time to brush the dust off of his clothes before launching at his opponent as swiftly as possible.

 _Dire-wolves are large and powerful, but speed is the trait of steppe-wolves, not them._ Ayden used that knowledge, bunching his legs muscles and racing around Everett.

Their fight raged for what seemed like an eternity. Ayden grunted when he hit the earth, baring his fangs as Everett hovered on top of him. He heard the distinctive click of his jaw as it unhinged in response to his emotional state. The hidden fangs slid from their compartment, long and curved and glistening white.

Everett responded in kind, Shifting such that his claws scratched the ground beside Ayden’s head. His teeth sharpened as his lips pulled back, and a black-nailed hand was raised before swiping down.

Ayden’s pupils constricted, and Everett seemed to move in slowed motion. He angled his fangs towards the nearest arm, letting his instincts take over as memories of the rush of a _true_ battle - on with screams and snarls and _blood_ \- echoed in his ears. Ayden was prepared to _bite_ when Everett’s arm suddenly halted.

A quick survey of the situation told him why. Quill’s guard, the man he called Cerberus, firmly grasped Everett’s attacking arm in one large hand. The other was wrapped around a sword - Ayden identified Legionnaire - that was placed atop Everett’s neck.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” the guard said, tone flat.

Ayden blinked. The surroundings became more apparent as his heart slowed and the bloodlust-induced haze cleared from his mind. He was relieved of the weight of Everett when the other man was dragged backwards, prompting him to sit up and re-hinge his jaw. The secondary fangs retreated, adopting the usual position aside their primary counterparts.

“Are you hurt, Your Majesty?” Cerberus asked, maintaining his grip.

Ayden stood on shaky legs, his chest heaving. Four thin, jagged lines had been ripped through his shirt and ran down his bicep. Everett, for his part, had two gauges on the forearm that had trapped Ayden’s head. Ayden licked the blood from his fangs.

“A draw,” Ayden said, swallowing Everett’s blood. He massaged his jaw, willing the ache to abate. “Let him go. I’m sure my brother by law did not mean to grievously injure me.”

“Sweet Dadia,” Ramsay cursed, having entered the arena behind Quill’s guard. He held a hand out, steadying Ayden. “Teeth and claws. Each day, I’m grateful to the mother above for not inflicting commonfolk with such traits.”

Cerberus released Everett, though he never stopped pointing Legionnaire in his direction. Ayden held his hand out in annoyance, reclaiming his sword. He was grateful that Cerberus had intervened before either of them went too far, but it was still _his_ gods-damned sword.

Ayden tore the bits of fabric away from his wounded bicep afterwards, wincing. “Do I detect lingering resentment in those punches?” He phrased it as a jest, raising his tone at the end of the question, but he was certain that there was some truth in it.

“Not at all, Your Majesty,” Everett replied. “We’re all on the same side now, aren’t we? One nation, unified under you."

“How patriotic.”

Quill and Lorelei joined them, faces identical masks of shock. Lorelei took Everett’s arm in her own, inspecting the bleeding fang marks. Quill looked between the two of them before settling on Ayden, gingerly tracing Everett’s gift to him.

“Are you alright?” Quill asked, his voice lowered. “I’m sure Everett didn’t mean to…”

“It’s fine.” Ayden took Quill’s hand into his own, gently removing it from his body. “A shame neither of us can claim the victory.”

“You won’t punish him, will you?”

“ _I_ challenged _him_. I’d be a poor sport if I couldn’t reap what I sowed.”

Quill’s eyebrows creased. “Mayhap you should set the swords aside for the day,” he said softly, his fingers brushing along his neck. “Have a healer take a look at your arm.”

Ayden forced a smile. “As His Grace commands.”

The people dispersed after that, many of them keeping a wide berth from the arena. Ayden sheathed Legionnaire and made sure that he was seen bantering with Everett, not wanting to perpetuate the image of division. Fights could get heated, and it was only natural that a former Insurgent and a crown loyalist would have some residual … tensions despite the war’s end.

 _Still,_ Ayden submitted to an inspection by a commonfolk healer, _this is not the first time werewolves have reacted to me in this way. Not long ago, I toured the city with Ramsay and felt golden-eyed daggers at my back._ He winced as alcohol burned his skin. _It would seem that I am not very popular with werewolves._

The thought unsettled him.

Ayden looked at his wound, watching the last drops of blood spill forth.

***

“Took his own life, eh?” Ramsay leered. “Couldn’t live with the guilt.” He rose from his seat, a myriad of emotions on his face. “I grew up with Julius Wolff, you know. He called himself the Lord of Dadia’s Rest back when the _Insurgents_ still had their claws in my region.” A smirk. “He certainly wasn’t lordly when he ran.”

Ayden hummed noncommittally. _Must Julius’ ghost follow me wherever I go?_

He and Ramsay sat in the meeting chamber, a map of Stepes unfurled before them. Several lines had been drawn over the spacious region, although the newest ones were concentrated towards the west. Ayden furrowed his brow at one of them, clearing the graphite and redrawing.

Eurydice had been touched by the war, but none of the regions could claim to be as affected as Stepes. It had seen a majority of the fighting, and rebuilding the region had been an unpleasant but necessary task. Ayden had done it in spurts, winning tracts of land from the Insurgents and reassigning it to its original owners or finding suitable ones, until the Stepes somewhat resembled what it had been in Eras prior.

The biggest issue he’d encountered thus far, however, was the lands to the west. Stretching from just past Homestead to just before Lupus Crossing was an area of disputed ownership. Ayden had taken to calling it ‘Western Stepes’ to differentiate it from the rest of the region.

Western Stepes had oft been friendly with the Annex. It was only natural - its werewolf blood was strong. It had been a simple task for Silas Wolff to conquer it during the invasion. Unfortunately for Ayden, it had not been a simple task for the crown to re-conquer it. It had remained out of his grasp until Theron Lycan’s intervention.

 _Most of the clans that lived there are gone,_ Ayden thought, rubbing the thickening stubble on his cheeks. He drew another line. _I need to divide it amongst the clans that still remain. But,_ he brushed his hair out of his eyes, _I don’t know what to assign to who. Ancestral claims, blood ties, ancient pacts. It’s all so much._

“The Potentate’s a feisty one, isn’t he?” Ramsay said, arms crossed as he glanced out of a window. “You have my sincerest apologies, Your Majesty.”

“Hm?” Ayden abandoned the map, glad to not have to look at it for a little while. “What for?”

As he’d requested, Quill had attended Ayden’s latest council. Ayden had nearly forgotten how hot-headed his husband could get. Quill had traded sharp-tongued words with many Stepen clan heads - Lords Zenith and Bulwark most of all - and Ayden had sighed each time fuel was added to the fire.

Potentate he may now be, Quill _was_ once an Insurgent. Ayden could tell that it chafed at the Stepens to be ordered by their former subjugator. Wolff or Lycan were the same to them.

 _What Quill lacks in experience,_ Ayden had thought after stopping yet another verbal spar, _he makes up for in sheer determination._

“You’ve spent years fighting those bastards,” Ramsay was saying. “Lost your mother to one of them, then lost your father to the war it started. Even lost your wife to them-”

 _She died of illness._ Ayden’s eyes drifted to the map, where the cartographer had detailed sections of the Annex. _Alone, with nothing but ice and snow by her side. Them, and her flowers._

“-and now you’re married to one.” Ramsay shook his head. “A damn shame.”

Ayden shrugged. “I’ve found my marriage to Quill tolerable thus far.”

“I imagine he’d be behaving himself. Wouldn’t want to step on the Viper’s tail.” Ramsay picked up a sugar cube from the tea that they’d consumed after the council. “One wrong move, and you would crush his little region like _that.”_

The cube crumbled in his palms.

Ayden watched the white powder fall, idly considering what constituted a wrong move. “I take it that you’re not ready to mend the relationship between Stepes and the Annex.”

“Any sympathy I had for them died with the invasion.” Ramsay took the seat across from Ayden. “My mother was still carrying me when it happened. By the time I was born, the world had changed.” His eyebrows softened, no longer drawn downwards. “Garin Skyreach, Arthur Skyreach, Peter Skyreach. My own father and brothers are just names to me.”

 _Such is the nature of war._ “You have my condolences.”

“Will it bring them back? Will it undo the damage done to Stepes?” Ramsay sighed. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. I still grieve for the past. A part of me wishes that I’d been the firstborn; that I could have marched against the invaders, instead of cowering amidst them until the Victory at the Mellow Sea. I know my mother would have smiled, to see those Insurgents burn.” A bitter smile. “Better still, the Annex could have been invaded for a change.”

 _Would that I did._ Ayden cradled his bicep, the bandaged wound throbbing underneath the dulling poultices smeared on it. _And yet, what good would that have done? Siege and snow and mountains awaited me in the Annex._

_That, and Wildland._

The day passed in a blur of documents. Once it was nightfall, Ayden gazed out of the window of the quarters that had been allocated for him, letting his mind wander. Homestead was lovely in the moonlight. The Mellow Sea lapped in the distance, and the soft lights from the various homes bathed the west in a gentle glow.

Homestead was beautiful, but Ayden’s memories of it were not. If he closed his eyes, he could still feel the heat of the burning structures and smell the taint of inedible blood in the air.

A knock sounded at the door.

“Come in,” Ayden said.

Quill padded into the chambers, dressed for sleep. Ayden smiled when he saw him, tearing his eyes from the purple-blue streets.

“It’s late.” He trapped Quill in his arms, kissing him softly. “You’re usually asleep at this hour.”

“I couldn’t sleep. Not tonight.” Quill let himself be guided to the bed, hovering over Ayden. “My mind has been racing since the council meeting. I … I believe that I have a solution.”

“Do tell.”

Quill straddled him, the position decidedly innocuous. “The issue of Western Stepes’ ownership is easy, once you analyse it. One clan wants this, another wants that, but the people living on the disputed lands will be the ones that are truly affected. Picture this,” Quill moved his hands as he talked, “you’re an ordinary Western Stepen. The war happens, and now you’re Annexian, or at least Annexian-aligned. When it ends-”

“-you’re Stepen once again. Where are you going with this?”

“I’ve been speaking with the people I meet on my excursions out of Dadia’s Rest. It was mostly stories, at first, but I crafted a cohesive narrative after writing everything down. Lorelei helped, too.” Quill bit his lip. “We should separate it.”

Ayden cocked his head. “Separate?”

“Western Stepes from Stepes,” Quill paused. “They have a name for it already. Frontier.” An excited smile. “ _Frontier_ has existed as a semi-autonomous territory for the entirety of the War Era. Before that, it had close ties to the Annex. Its history has produced a diverse people that have lived in peace. Gray-wolves, dire-wolves, commonfolk, it scarcely matters.” His eyes sparkled. “Drawing artificial borders - allocating the lands to clans that are practically foreign - would disrupt the balance that its inhabitants have created. It’ll destroy Frontier’s identity.”

Silence.

“You want an eighth region.”

Quill hesitated. “I don’t _want_ it, per say. It would just be a better course of action.”

The hand that had been tracing circles on Quill’s thigh stilled. Ayden sat up, sliding him off of his lap. “There have been seven for centuries, Quill.”

“There doesn’t have to be. Eurydice would still be Ancient if everyone had kept to that notion.”

Ayden exhaled slowly. “I’ll think about it.”

Quill pouted. “You’re doing it again.”

“What am I doing?”

“That thing you do when you want to avoid giving a proper answer. You say that you’ll think about something, but you won’t.”

“Fine. You wish for a proper answer?” Ayden stood. “No.”

“ _Why?”_

“What do you mean _why?_ Do you even know what goes into creating a new region? Especially one that is carved out of another?” Ayden frowned. “I certainly don’t.”

“We can learn.” Quill’s mouth set into a stubborn line. “ _I_ can learn. The kingdom has been divided into regions seven times over. Surely, there are countless books on the matter.”

“Each region was once a kingdom in its own right. This is something entirely new.”

“ _Good.”_ Quill crossed his legs. “ _This_ could be what I’ve been searching for since I married you. My purpose in the realm.”

Ayden cupped Quill’s cheeks. “Your purpose was to end the war and keep it ended, and you’ve done that beautifully. Eurydice thanks you for it. Let me handle what comes next.”

Quill blinked, then his face contorted. Ayden’s hand was roughly pushed away, and Quill drew himself to his full height. The atmosphere grew tense.

“Do you remember our conversation in the gardens of the Redfyre Palace?” Quill asked tersely. “When you said that you would _listen_ to me?”

“Quill…”

“Why is it so difficult for you to listen?” Full lips pulled back in a partial-snarl. “This isn’t some game of chess. Why must I wrestle _every_ single bit of agency I have out of you?”

“You had agency in the Ironhill.” Ayden countered. 

“Oh, yes, what an exciting life I lived.” Quill’s eyes blazed in the darkness. “You scarcely _looked_ at me after I was crowned, Ayden. It took my _death_ to make you see me as more than a man you would bed on the occasion.” The gleam of curved claws. “I have a crown and a title, yet I can’t use them because _you_ won’t let me! Why? Why won’t you let me?”

“That’s not true.”

“What are you so afraid of?” Quill pressed on. “That you’ll no longer be in control of everything? That you’ll discover that you’re not the best person to rule at every moment?” There was the faint scent of blood. “That maybe, just maybe, the werewolf you _bought_ isn’t content to be a docile pet and wants to be a Potentate?”

Ayden matched his glare. “You’re walking on thin ice, Quill.”

He regarded Quill, taking in all his features. Anger was foremost. There was a tendril of pain in his eyes, but Ayden could not tell if it was from the claws that Quill was digging into his palms. There was something else, too. Something raw and hungry and _vicious._

For the first time since seeing that nervous man kneeling before the Red Throne, Ayden felt threatened by Quill.

“What are you going to do? Punish me? _Think_ about punishing me?” Quill did not seem to notice the difference in height between them as he stalked towards Ayden. “There is only one person that can hinder the Potentate, and it’s the Sovereign. What do you _think_ that I’m going to do with the power that you agreed to share with me? Stage a coup? Eurydice will always choose a vampire over a werewolf!” A hollow laugh. “It’ll always choose you over me.”

 _No werewolf in their right mind would choose me over you. It was naïve to believe that marrying you would be enough._ Ayden absently cradled his healing wound. _A sixth of my own kingdom does not love me. More, if I include Coven._

“I don’t know why I bothered,” Quill spat. “You’ll never see me as an equal, will you? The right hand does not command the left, but it’s still superior at the end of the day, _isn’t it?_ Nothing is worth your time unless it comes from one of your own. How much longer must I be your puppet?”

“You want to be a _ruler?”_ Ayden hissed. “Fine, then. Go, hold court in ‘Frontier’. When you realize that this is another of your fanciful notions on the future of the kingdom, come back so that I can resolve this mess and set a course for the Ironhill.”

Quill’s quiet footsteps may as well have been thunderclaps for how loud they echoed. He stormed past Ayden, the heavy door to the bedroom thumping. Ayden massaged the bridge of his nose, swallowing down the regret at lashing out at his husband.

 _Perhaps I was too harsh, but Quill needed to hear it. Good intentions do not produce the best decisions,_ Ayden rationalized. _Tomorrow, when our flames have cooled, we will discuss this properly. There was_ some _merit to his words._

He sighed tiredly, knowing that sleep would not come to him that night.


End file.
